Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting shadows on my exposed flesh. A balmy breeze cuts across the park, weaving inside the castle walls. It reaches the battlements, where I'm sprawled over the stone. A lock of brunette hair dusts my brow, blocking one eye.
"Should we fix that?" I ask.
"Nah, it looks sexy," the photographer replies, continuing to snap photos. "Squeeze your tits a little."
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I do as he says, gently kneading my breasts, making my nipple piercings more pronounced beneath the sheer bralette. I arch my spine, let my lips part, and close my eyes to protect them from the rising sun. This wing of the castle has been blocked off, but there are morning joggers on the path below. A few of the men holler, but it's easy to disregard. I'm in work mode.
"Perfect, Josie," the director applauds. "We got them all."
I slide off the wall, my thong snagging on the rough stone. "Lemme see."
I've hired a street team for this particular photoshoot, but I'm in charge of the show. I own Belladonna, a sustainable lingerie company. I started it my freshman year at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. I spent night after night hunched over my sewing machine when I should've been studying. I modeled my own pieces, amassed a following on social media, and outlined an ethical business concept. By my twentieth birthday, I'd made my first million, and quit school to focus on meeting demand.
Belladonna is my baby.
Nothing gets through without my approval.
The photographer shows me his camera's display, flipping through the shots. I nix a quarter of them, and ask for the rest to be emailed as they are. I want to make sure he doesn't photoshop any part of my body. The environment and lighting can be edited, but if I have a bit of stretch mark on my ass or a roll on my tummy, it shouldn't be removed.
"Your phone has been ringing nonstop," my assistant, Chelsea, informs me.
She holds out a pair of gray sweats for me to step into. Once my bottom half is covered and my sneakers are tied, I take my cell from her and thumb through the notifications. Quite a few of them are from my family, but Arthur King's name dominates my screen. I ignore my ex-boyfriend, clicking on an article from BBC. The headline announces England lost the World Cup Final in a shootout. My phone buzzes in my hand, and my Uncle Payton's face fills the screen.
"Hello?" I answer, pressing the speaker to my ear.
"Where are you?" he demands.
I glance around me—the castle, the trees, the skyscrapers. "Belvedere Castle."
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