At Luxford Academy, the elite boarding school for the ultra-rich, Adriana and Nicholas have been bitter rivals since childhood. Forced to live in the same dorm, their once-friendly pranks have escalated into daily clashes-sharp insults, constant bic...
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The lights are blinding as I stand on the set, the Eiffel Tower visible in the distance through the large windows. The room buzzes with energy—makeup artists touch up last-minute details, stylists adjust clothing, and the photographer checks the lighting for the hundredth time. It's the kind of chaos that somehow feels like home, a world where I know exactly what to do and how to do it.
I'm in the middle of a shoot, the camera clicking away as I strike pose after pose. I can hear the photographer murmuring his approval, the clicks speeding up as he captures the perfect shot. Everything seems to be going well until the stylist approaches, a slightly nervous look on her face.
"Hey," she says softly, trying to keep her tone light, "we're thinking of changing up the look a bit. Could you take off your shirt? It'll add a more edgy, raw vibe to the shots."
I freeze for a moment, the request hanging in the air between us. This isn't the first time something like this has happened, but it always feels like a surprise, catching me off guard when I'm deep into the flow of the shoot. I glance around at the crew, everyone going about their tasks, oblivious to the silent conversation happening right in the middle of it all.
"No, I'm not comfortable with that," I say, trying to keep my voice steady but firm.
The stylist looks a little taken aback, like she wasn't expecting any pushback. "Are you sure? It's just for a few shots, and it could really elevate the series. It's Paris, after all—bold, daring, chic."
I shake my head, more resolute this time. "I appreciate the idea, but I'm not going to take my shirt off. We can find another way to get that edgy look."
The photographer, overhearing the exchange, lowers his camera and walks over. "Is there a problem?" he asks, his tone more curious than concerned.
"She's not comfortable with taking off her shirt," the stylist explains, her voice tight.
The photographer looks at me, his expression unreadable behind the camera slung around his neck. "We can make it work either way," he says after a pause. "Your comfort is important, and the shoot will be just as strong without that element."
I nod, feeling a small wave of relief wash over me. "Thank you," I say, appreciating his support. I know that in this industry, standing your ground can be difficult, and not everyone is as understanding.
The stylist gives me a tight smile and steps back, returning to her rack of clothes. The tension in the room eases slightly, but I can still feel a few eyes on me, probably wondering why I would refuse something that might seem like a minor request. But to me, it's not minor at all.
I take a deep breath, refocusing as the photographer starts giving directions again. We resume the shoot, the camera clicking away once more, and I channel everything I'm feeling into the poses. I remind myself that I'm in control of my own body and my own boundaries. This is my career, and I have every right to make decisions that align with who I am and what I'm comfortable with.
