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"Sit on that chair," he says, staring through the lens of his camera as he points me underneath the bright lights. They all point at the chair, and I walk over there. It's hot under the lights, but not hot enough for me. I thrive in the heat. The cold always reaches my bones, making me feel more alone than ever. "Robe off, Dove."
I glance at everyone else in the room. There are two assistants, a lighting guy, as well as the makeup artist and hairstylist. I want to ask if they're all staying for the shoot, but I'm too embarrassed, not wanting to show just how inexperienced I am.
"Pronto, Dove," Raphael sighs, then follows my gaze to the rest of the people in the room. He seems to have picked up on my nervous energy. "Would you be more comfortable if we were alone?"
I contemplate his words. It would be easier to have just one judging pair of eyes on me instead of five. But out of all the people here, Raphael is the most intimidating by far. The Mexican photographer is gorgeous. Messy black hair, the most intense dark gaze and a body that looks like it’s carved from stone. I've seen his Instagram feed. Even his selfies look like works of art, and he has beautiful models throwing themselves at him all day long. So what the hell does it matter? It's not like the guy's interested in me, anyway. He doesn't care what I look like. I'm not his girlfriend – I'm just his inspiration of the day.
"Yes," I finally manage.
He clicks his fingers and my watchers file out of the studio while casting curious glances at me. I can tell the hairstylist, Katya, is jealous. She was eating Raphael up with her eyes earlier. She must be hating this. The thought gives me a sick kind of satisfaction, yet I’m dreading what I’m about to do.
“When you’re ready,” Raphael says, returning his eye to behind the lens.
I get to my feet, the bright lights unforgiving, my hands trembling as I tug on the tie and the robe comes undone. I let it fall off my pale shoulders, gathering at my feet in a pool of silk. I can feel Raphael's gaze on me as he drinks in my body, and shame threatens to burn me up from the inside.
But the photographer doesn't mention any of my imperfections. Not the fact that I'm painfully thin, emaciated. Not the tiny cuts covering my body, scars from years ago and some as fresh as a few days back. He doesn't talk about my visible rib cage, or the hip bones painfully protruding through my pale skin. Doesn't mention the scabbed scars on my thighs. And it's a welcome relief.
This is who I am. This is what I look like. If he doesn't like me, that's fine – I just hope he's quick and as painless as possible when he turns me down. But the words never come. Instead, I'm blinded by the flash of light as he snaps a photo.
"Hermosa," he mutters, admiring his own work on the screen. "Just fucking beautiful."
It's been a long time since I've been called beautiful.
For the next three hours, I work hard as Raphael's muse. He positions me in different ways, neither of us stopping for a second. I'm naked for the entire shoot, but it doesn't feel icky like I feared when Raphael first mentioned it. He doesn't look at me like a sex object. He looks at me almost impersonally, as though I'm a work of art he's been sent to capture. Like a true artist.
By the time he finally announces we've finished, I'm feeling exhausted.
"Do you want to see the photos?" he asks as he stares intently at the computer screen, scrutinizing our hard work. "I think they came out—"
"No, that's okay," I cut him off. I don't want to hear the ending of that sentence. "As long as we're done here, I'd like to head back home."
"Of course." He gives me a curious glance. This time, he doesn't look at me like I’m an object. He looks at me as a woman, and his gaze lingers on my puckered nipples, at the patch of hair on my neglected center. I flush, letting my hair fall over my face to hide the traitorous blush in my cheeks. Picking the black silk robe off the floor, I put it on as fast as I can. Once I'm covered by fabric again, I can finally breathe.
"Thank you for this opportunity," I say, my gaze meeting Raphael's. "I'm really grateful."
"Of course you are," he smirks. Cocky. But why wouldn't he be? "It was my pleasure, honestly, Dove. We have something amazing here. I'll be in touch in a few weeks with the final selection."
