~CAKE~
The studio for Maison Virelli smells like expensive alcohol and ambition.
Everything is white — the walls, the floors, even the backdrop.
I did my homework—The brand is one of Milan’s pride pieces — bold, sensual campaigns, faces that look like they were carved instead of born. Now I am standing in the center of it all in a silk slip and borrowed poise.
“Redresse les épaules,” the photographer snaps. {Straighten your shoulders.}
I adjust.
He circles me like he’s assessing sculpture. “Plus doux. Pas comme ça.” { Softer. Not like that.}
I try again.
He lowers the camera slightly. “Mon Dieu,” {My God} he mutters under his breath.
The makeup artist steps in, dabbing at my cheek with a sponge. She smiles politely. “Relax your jaw a little. You’re clenching.”
I hadn’t noticed.
