“It was so generous of you,” I go on awkwardly. “I know I shouldn’t have taken the money, but honestly, without the money, Reeves would have never let us keep him.”
He cocks a brow, but doesn’t say a word. I know he’s biting his tongue. I get it. It’s messed up. No one knows that more than I do.
Following a long, uncomfortable silence, he finally speaks. “Speaking of which…” he says, his voice smooth and seductive, each word measured and delivered with deliberate slowness. The way he speaks—like he has all the time in the world, like each syllable deserves its own moment—is so different from the rushed conversations I have with Reeves these days, both of us always skittering about like headless chickens.
“I have another proposition for you,” he says quietly.
His long fingers drum once, twice against the bar top, a patient rhythm that somehow makes my pulserace faster in contrast. He's waiting for me to ask, to engage, to step willingly into whatever web he's weaving.
The worst part is, despite everything, I want to. God help me, I want to.
“A private photo session,” he explains, his voice caressing each word like velvet.
At his studio—a space I imagine to be sleek and minimalist like everything else about him. His professional camera, not some amateur smartphone shots. His piercing eyes capturing every curve, every contour, every vulnerable inch of my body. The thought sends simultaneous shivers of terror and excitement racing along my spine.
My mind races wildly, tripping over itself with questions I'm afraid to voice aloud.
Would anyone else see these photos? What would he do with them afterward? Would they stay locked away in some private collection, or would I forever wonder if they might surface somewhere?
And beneath these practical concerns lurk deeper, more dangerous thoughts—how would it feel to be the sole focus of his artistic vision? To be truly seen by someone like Caine Hall, someone who looks at the world with such precision and intensity?
"Would I... need to be naked?" I ask, my voice barely more than a breath.
"Yes," he answers without hesitation, his gazeholding mine, daring me to say yes. "That would be expected."
I feel a flush creep up my neck, heat pooling in my belly. The idea is scandalous, thrilling, and I can't deny the surge of arousal that courses through me at the thought of being so utterly exposed for him. I'm also filled with anxiety. No man, other than Reeves, has ever seen me fully naked.
I'm nowhere near perfect. I need to lose a good ten pounds, and my breasts are too small, nothing like the round and perky-breasted women I see in movies. My stomach is soft from carrying Liam. Faint silver lightning bolt marks stretch across my hips. My thighs touch when I walk naked, and sometimes I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince at how ordinary I look—not ugly, just... kind of unremarkable.
The reality of my life slams into me like a cold shower. Reeves. Our son. Our life. This is madness.
"Fifty thousand dollars," he says abruptly, and I almost faint. "For one hour of your time."
"That's… insane!"
He smiles. "Not at all… not as far as I'm concerned. You're worth every penny."
"But… I mean… " I really don't know what to say here. What a weird proposal. I wave in my own direction. "This… here is an illusion. Just so you know, I'm wearing a padded underwire bra. It does wonders. These are seriously nothing to write home about."
A sweet grin stretches across his face. "I'm sure you're lovely."
"Well, it's only fair that you are properly informed before you shell out fifty grand. We wouldn't want you to be disappointed with your investment."
He laughs. "Oh, I'm sure I won't be disappointed."
I twist my wedding ring unconsciously, the metal warm against my skin. The modest yellow dollhouse Reeves and I call home seems a universe away from Caine's world of penthouses and private studios.
The weight of our struggling finances presses down on me, making fifty thousand dollars sound like salvation rather than sin. For Liam's therapy. For the pool hall's rent. For breathing room we haven't had in years. It all seems too easy. Way too easy to pass up. What would it really be?
“I’d need to talk to Reeves, of course," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "He's away at the moment."
Caine nods, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Of course. I understand."
There's no way Reeves will ever agree to this. This whole conversation is pointless. The only thing it will ever achieve is messing with my mental health on a royal scale. I was doing so well. I was starting to forget allabout Caine. I was moving on with my life. One day at a time.
Until this moment…
“Think about it,” he says.
