The moment I stepped into the office, I knew today was going to be a mess.
Not dramatic-mess—anxious, vibrating, everyone-acting-like-they’re-about-to-strip-on-camera mess.
Every woman on the floor was pretending to work while clearly thinking about only one thing: their boudoir shoot.
The studio crew Victor hired had transformed one of the private rooms into something straight out of a luxury magazine. Soft white curtains. Dim golden lights. A velvet chaise lounge that looked like it had seen sin. And racks of lingerie—silk, lace, mesh, all in sets more expensive than my rent.
My stomach twisted.
I could handle moaning into a mic for strangers every day—but posing half-naked in front of a camera felt like an entirely different kind of vulnerability.
I put my bag down, signed in, tri
