Born To Be More

Chic

Raine

I’m ready for today—ready to dive in, work hard, and hope everything goes to plan. As the car pulls up outside Chic, Caine turns to me. “Wait here just a sec, Raine,” he says, slipping out to speak with a man approaching the vehicle. My door opens, and Caine leans in, “Raine, this is Sam—he’s part of your security detail.” I barely get a nod in before I spot a rush of media charging toward the car. Another man steps between us and the chaos, holding them off with practiced ease.

Jesus, this is insane.

Sam moves in close, guiding me with quiet efficiency. We weave through the noise and flash of cameras and make it into the building. As soon as the elevator doors close behind us, I take a breath. Deep. Shaky.

Is this what it’s going to be like every day?

“Welcome back, Raine,” the receptionist says as we step out of the lift.

I smile. “Thank you.”

“This way,” Caine gestures. “We’re heading straight to the studio this morning.”

We wind through what feels like miles of hallways before the space opens up into a massive studio—partitioned for different sets and bathed in buzzing light. The energy hits me like a wave. It’s full-on Black Friday mayhem, but with better lighting and more hairspray.

A man barrels toward us, wide-eyed and practically vibrating. “Raine! Welcome to Chic Studios!” he exclaims. “I’m Stanton, one of your photographers today.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I say, reaching for a handshake. Instead, he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to the back of it like we’re in some vintage romance flick.

“Let’s get you to hair and makeup—we’ll see you shortly,” he says, then spins on his heel and immediately starts barking orders at someone across the room.

Caine leans in, dry as ever. “The creative types are all drama.”

We both chuckle, and I suddenly feel just a little more at ease in the madness.

Sitting in hair and makeup for forty-five minutes was painful—like watching paint dry while someone airbrushes your face. At least Molly, the makeup artist, was a riot. Funny, foul-mouthed, and full of gossip—my kind of people.

Now I’m perched on a plain blue cube, twisting and tilting for the camera, giving it subtle poses like a pro. Five minutes in, and I’m bored out of my knickers. The photographer is yelling compliments like he’s chugged three Red Bulls and is trying to manifest Beyoncé. I'm pretty sure the man is high—or just very, very extra.

A few more robotic turns and exaggerated coos from him, and I’m officially over it—like a kid with ADHD in a two-hour lecture.

So I do the only logical thing: I climb up onto the box and shout, “Can someone turn up the music?”

An assistant scrambles off, and seconds later LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem blasts through the speakers.

“Turn it up!” I yell. And they do.

I start dancing like a complete goof—shaking my hips, flailing my arms, swinging my hair around like I’m in a shampoo ad gone wild. “Join me!” I call out.

And they do.

Everyone in the studio starts letting loose, bouncing around the cameras and laughing. Even Stanton starts thrusting like he’s in a boy band reunion tour. The energy is electric, and I’m in absolute hysterics by the time the track ends.

People start clapping and cheering, so naturally, I throw up a rock sign and give a dramatic bow.

Because Raine Marshall doesn’t just pose. She performs.

I hop down from the cube, instantly swarmed by people offering high-fives and laughing, throwing out compliments like confetti.

“Awesome shoot!”

“That was insane!”

“You’ve got to do that every time!”

Wait… shoot? s**t. I kind of forgot we were actually doing one. Oops.

Through the crowd, I spot Caine bent over laughing, his phone pointed straight at me like he just filmed the greatest comedy show of all time.

I push my way toward him. “Great moves, Raine,” he chuckles, swiping something on his screen. “I’ve never seen these uptight studio types loosen up like that. You might be a bad influence.”

“Oh, shut it, Caine. I was falling asleep up there. I had to do something before I face-planted from boredom,” I say, rolling my eyes.

He grins wide. “Well, you certainly woke them up. Stanton nearly tripped over his own tripod trying to keep up.”

I groan. “Please tell me you didn’t record that.”

He holds up his phone, smug. “Oh, I absolutely did. That’s blackmail material, Marshall.”

“Delete it, or I swear I’ll start calling you ‘dad joke Caine’ in public.”

He winces. “Low blow.”

I smirk. “You love it.”

The next shoot was slightly more interesting—slightly. I was working with fabric this time—every color and texture imaginable—but I was still wearing a basic white outfit: tight pants and a tube top that barely covered the essentials. The colors popped, sure, but the energy? Flatline.

I twirled, swayed, flipped fabric in slow motion like a graceful fairy on Ambien. After ten minutes, I was fantasizing about stringing the new cameraman up by a length of chiffon.

"Want me to shake things up a little?" I offered, pausing mid-twirl.

The camera guy lowered his lens, frowning. "You don’t like this style?"

I smiled sweetly. "There’s always room for improvement."

He sighed, already defeated. "Fine. I’ve got what I need. The floor’s yours."

"Great. Do you have any colored paint? Or maybe powder paint?"

His brows shot up. “Props!” he barked, and within minutes, a breathless assistant came wheeling in a trolley stacked with tubs of vibrant paint powders, bottles of glitter, spray bottles—basically an explosion waiting to happen.

Perfect.

Molly came over to touch up my face, clearly intrigued. I leaned in, whispered my plan, and she burst out laughing. “You’re wicked,” she said, already calling her assistant over to get ready for the chaos.

Time to turn this shoot into an art show.

"Are you ready?" I ask the cameraman.

He nods, wide-eyed and already bracing himself.

"Music, please!" I call out.

The bass kicks in. A crowd has gathered, but I don't care—let them watch. Let’s turn this studio into a damn carnival.

I glance at Molly and give her the signal. "One, two, three!"

The first hit is a streak of neon paint straight across my stomach, courtesy of Molly. Her assistant joins in, then Caine, and suddenly it’s a full-on paint war. Spray bottles, powder bursts, glitter—color is flying at me from every direction. I’m laughing, spinning, squealing like a maniac as the air turns into a swirling rainbow cloud.

The cameraman is yelling, “More! More! Don’t stop!”

So, naturally, I start throwing it back.

My pristine white outfit is long gone, now replaced by a chaotic masterpiece of fuchsia, cobalt, lime green, and glitter. I look like a unicorn exploded—and I own every damn drop of it.

When the music fades and the chaos slows, I finally notice the Chic boss standing at the edge of the studio, arms crossed, flanked by two serious-looking suits.

He claps once. Then nods.

Well, damn.

I smile wide—mission accomplished—and make my way to the showers. They might regret signing me one day, but at least now they know exactly what they got: not just a model, but a hurricane in heels.

Heading to lunch, I sit down with Melissa and scroll through my phone. Yes! A message from Max. Kootchie does a happy shimmy.

Max Wolf: "Can I take you out for dinner tonight, Angel?"

Angel: "Hmmm let me think... I may need to wash my hair tonight."

I watch the screen, waiting for the little dots to appear—those glorious dots that say he's typing.

"Raine?"

Shit. Did I miss something?

I look up to find Melissa smirking at me.

"I heard you shook up the studio today," she laughs.

"Bloody Caine," I say, grinning. "I just added a bit of spin, that’s all."

"That’s not what I heard." She wiggles her brows. "I heard you danced, got the crew dancing, and then wrecked the place with paint."

I laugh. "Okay, I may have gone a little rogue. But it was so boring, I swear if I had fallen asleep, the cameraman still would've shouted compliments at me."

Ding. Max replies.

Max Wolf: "Oh Angel, I’ll come join you in the shower, wash your hair, and then we’ll go out for dinner."

I sigh at my screen, grinning like an i***t. He’s so sexy it should be illegal.

Angel: "Mr. Wolf, I accept your dinner date... and the shower."

Max Wolf: "Mr. Wolf? I like it. Can I pick you up from work?"

Angel: "I look forward to seeing you then."

I finish up lunch with Melissa, feeling a little lighter now that I know I’ll be seeing Max tonight. Still, I can’t help the flutter of nerves rising in my chest. God, I feel ridiculous. Needy. Like some lovesick teenager waiting for her boyfriend to text.

Suck it up, princess, I tell myself as I stand and head toward the meeting room. Time to put my big girl pants back on—I've got assistant interviews to survive.

Melissa meets me near the door with a folder in hand and that familiar efficient sparkle in her eyes.

"Raine, I’ve compiled a list of applicants for us to interview this afternoon," she says. "Caine asked to sit in—he’ll be here shortly. You’ve got mostly women, but there are a couple of young men as well. All of them are highly qualified."

I nod, trying to channel my professional mode, but internally I’m groaning. This already feels like a chore.

"So... what exactly should I be looking for in an assistant?" I ask.

Melissa smiles knowingly. "Multi-tasking. Strong communication. A personality that meshes well with yours. And of course, someone with solid work ethic. You’ll be spending a lot of time together, Raine. This isn’t just about skill—it’s about trust and compatibility.”

I glance at the folder in her hands. Trust. That word echoes in my mind, and suddenly I realize—it might be harder to find than I thought.

"This industry, as you're already starting to find out, is fast-paced and time-precious," Melissa says, slipping into her professional tone. "You’ll have scheduled events, shoots, interviews, and marketing tasks—all of which need to be carefully coordinated to work around you and the agency's demands."

"Got it," I nod, already dreading the calendar overload. "So, how many interviews am I doing this afternoon?"

She flips through her clipboard like it might soften the blow. “About fifteen.”

"What the f**k, Melissa! I thought Max culled the list?"

"He did!" she defends, holding up a hand. "But we had over four hundred people apply, Raine. You’re the new big thing—word gets around."

"Great. So people want the job just to be near the attention?"

"No,” she says, giving me a cheeky grin, “they want to be part of something fun, new, and outrageously cool. And you, my dear, are apparently all of those things. Heard it more than once today, actually.”

She wiggles her eyebrows and I chuck a pencil at her. "Shut it, Melissa."

She laughs, ducking. “Come on, let’s find my husband so we can get this circus started.”

Caine strolls in, all casual charm, and drops into a chair across from us. “Afternoon, ladies,” he says smoothly, then presses a button on the desk to call in the first applicant. And just like that, we’re off.

The door swings open, and the first candidate steps in. Hmmm. Looks okay—neat, professional. I mentally remind myself not to judge a book by its cover. We’ll see how she goes.

“Hi, thanks for coming in to see us today,” Melissa says in her polished HR tone. “Please state your name, and did you bring your résumé?”

“Wendy Adams,” she replies, handing it over with slightly trembling fingers.

The poor girl looks terrified. She’s dressed in a super tight pencil skirt and a stiff white shirt that looks like it’s never met a wrinkle. Her hair is scraped back into a bun so tight I swear I can hear it humming under tension. I wince internally. That’s gotta hurt.

“So, Wendy,” I start gently, trying to put her at ease, “why do you want to be my assistant, and where do you see yourself in the next two years?”

She jumps in like she’s memorized it from a career counselor’s Pinterest board. “I want to be part of a fast-evolving industry. I’d like to travel, explore new places, and challenge myself to meet all kinds of people,” she says, rattling it off in one long, nervous breath.

Aaaaand we lost her. I nod politely, but internally I know she’s not a fit. She’s sweet, but too shy and timid. She’d be eaten alive in a week, or cry the first time someone swore in front of her. Hell, I almost cried yesterday—and I bite back.

“Thank you for coming in, Wendy,” Caine says smoothly. “We’ll be in touch early next week.”

He presses the button again for the next applicant.

I lean back in my chair and mutter to Melissa out the side of my mouth, “Well, that was a soft start.”

She grins. “Only fourteen more to go.”

This went on forever. We interviewed all kinds—some great, some questionable, and a few who were definitely in the wrong building.

One lady said she wanted to be “surrounded by beautiful people and see how the other half lives.” Flighty as hell. I sat there wondering if she even understood what the job was or if she thought she was applying to be part of a reality show. Another woman proudly announced she would have my schedule “down to the minute,” and I quote, “to keep you on time.” Her voice was clipped, her posture military-straight, and I’m pretty sure her ass was clenched the whole time. I don’t need someone judging me every time I take a bathroom break. It was a hard no from me.

By the tenth applicant, I was slouched in my chair, mentally begging for a nap and questioning all my life choices. “Guys… do I actually need an assistant?” I asked, deadpan.

“Yes!” Caine and Melissa said in unison like two stage parents on caffeine.

Well, s**t. Okay then.

Thankfully, the next couple of candidates were more promising—confident, experienced, and actually seemed to want the job for the right reasons. I started to perk up.

By the time we hit the end of the list, we had a solid shortlist: four candidates. Two women. Two men. All competent, all with strong references.

Now the hard part—choosing just one.

“Guys, that was ridiculous,” I sigh, slumping back in my chair. “I wish I had an assistant to sort this.” I laugh at myself, and both Caine and Melissa roll their eyes like tired parents with an overgrown toddler.

“Look, I’m just not used to all this,” I continue. “Really, I just want someone who keeps everything on track—without pissing me off or getting on everyone else’s nerves.”

Melissa straightens a stack of papers. “Let’s look at our options, then?”

“Both girls are solid,” Caine says, flipping through the shortlists. “Tiffany’s definitely more experienced.”

“And the guys?” I ask.

Caine hesitates. “I don’t think that’ll go over well with Max.”

Melissa’s eyes widen like someone just dropped a match into a pool of petrol.

I pause, the words echoing in my head.

“Well, it’s not really up to Max,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “It only needs to go over well with me.”

The silence stretches a second too long.

“I know I’m new to this—maybe a little naïve still—but I need to make these decisions,” I add, softer now. “I can’t start rearranging my life around what won’t go over well for a guy I just met.”

Even as I say it, it feels like a lie. Or at least… not the whole truth.

Because the truth is, Max isn’t just some guy.

And that’s the part that has me f****d up the most.

Caine and Melissa look taken aback by my little outburst. I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Alright, let’s just look at the shortlist.”

“I like Kate,” Melissa offers gently. “She seemed sweet and easy to talk to.”

“Tiffany had more experience,” Caine counters, “and she won’t let anyone push her around. You’ll need that.”

“Skyla was great too,” I add, flipping through the final few resumes. “Funny, outgoing... but maybe the type to party too hard and roll into work hungover?”

They both nod, almost in unison. “Yep. Agreed.”

I let out a long breath. “Okay. Let’s go with Tiffany and see how it goes.”

“Great. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow,” Melissa says, marking the page with a satisfied smile.

“Raine,” Caine pipes up, “I need to take you to meet your agent—he’s my uncle, and he’s keen to officially sign you. What do you think about doing that over lunch tomorrow? Melissa, can you come too? He’d love to see you both.”

We all agree that lunch works, and just like that, another thing gets ticked off the ever-growing list.

Caine grabs a few drinks from the bar fridge and tosses one my way. I sink into the couch like my bones are liquid, pulling my feet up under me.

God, what a day.

I lean my head back and sigh. “Pretty sure I still have paint in places that should never see paint, if you know what I mean.”

Melissa snorts and raises her bottle. “Welcome to the madness.”