It was the final evening of the September moon, and the heavy scent of anticipation hung over the city. The Pacific Crown Gala was set to commence at seven o’clock, a night where the hierarchy of the modeling world would be etched in silver. As a guest presenter, I was tethered to the arm of Mark Whitaker—a high-ranking judge and a man whose reputation for predatory behavior was a whispered warning in every den.
The moment Lisa mentioned his name, the hackles on my neck rose. I remembered his grease-slicked gaze from the Pacific Crown Gala of years past. Mark Whitaker, I thought. The scavenger always finds the kill.
Lisa was rattling off the logistics of the red carpet, but a cold instinct prickled my skin. "Lisa," I interrupted, "can you secure a hidden lens for my gown?"
"A camera? I
