Third Person's POV.
Three days after the return of Percy and Gemini from their vacation, the atmosphere inside the Moore Holdings headquarters felt less like a corporate office and more like a pressurized chamber nearing its breaking point.
Penelope arrived for the morning shoot armored in a tailored ivory suit that screamed authority, but even the thick glass walls of the studio couldn't muffle the crackling electricity in the air. She was in sole operational mode, a role she usually wore like a second skin, but today, her emotional boundaries were being tested by a very specific, very relentless adversary.
The studio doors swung open to a landscape of blinding lights. The space was a battlefield of light stands and silver reflectors, the air a heavy, intoxicating cocktail of industrial hairspray, steamed linen, and the ozone scent of overtaxed electronics. Through the haze, the staccato click-click-click of a high-end shutter rang out like a rhythmic pulse.
And there, at the center of the storm, stood Harlow Langford.
He was a gravitational force, leaning into his camera with a muscular, focused grace that made the rest of the crew seem like background noise. Clad in a simple black t-shirt that hugged the broad lines of his shoulders, he moved with the precision of a predator. When he caught sight of Penelope, that confident smile—the one that usually dismantle her facade didn't waver. It simply deepened into something more, a silent acknowledgement of the secret they both carried.
He gave her a curt nod that was the height of hypocrisy. Asshole, she thought, her pulse jumping in her throat as she forced herself to look away.
Penelope, who was slated to step in front of that very lens for the flagship 'Moore Heirlooms' collection in forty-eight hours, pivoted toward the set manager. Her voice was o
sharp.
"Status report. And please explain why the lighting on the linen set looks like fluorescent. I ordered soft focus, not intense spotlight."
"The lighting is Harlow's call, Ms. Moore," the manager whispered, eyes darting toward the photographer. "He claims he's capturing 'sharp modernity.' He's ahead of schedule, but his direction for the models... it's a bit bold."
"Suggestive is the word you're looking for," Penelope corrected, her eyes narrowing as she watched a model drape herself across a silk sheet in a pose that was more 'Vogue After Dark' than 'Morning with the Family.'
She marched onto the set, her heels striking the concrete like a countdown. "Mr. Langford, a word."
Harlow stepped away from his camera immediately, giving her his undivided, silver-eyed attention. That unwavering smile remained tucked into the corners of his mouth. "Ms. Moore. Lovely to see you. Just finalizing the compositions for the 'Domestic Bliss' collection. What do you think?"
"I think 'Domestic Bliss' involves feeling at home, not a seduction scene," Penelope stated, keeping her voice low, a controlled simmer. "I saw the last few shots on the monitor. They are too sensual. The target demographic for our linen line is conservative, affluent families—not the avant-garde club crowd. We need a soft, aspirational, safe approach. Revert to the brief immediately."
Harlow tilted his head, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his brow. "Safe is a slow death for a brand, Penelope. And let's be honest—your brand is starving for energy. We talked about capturing a real connection. This is what magnetic looks like."
"Connection looks like a healthy bottom line, not latent sex appeal," she snapped, her mask beginning to crack under his steady gaze. "Follow instructions, Harlow. Or I'll find a photographer who actually knows how to follow instructions."
Harlow took a single, slow step closer, dropping his voice until it was a vibration meant only for her. "You could fire me. But we both know you won't. You know I'm the best, and you know this campaign needs my eye. You aren't fighting the creative direction of this shoot, Penelope. You're fighting the ghost of a night you can't forget. You're struggling because I am the one behind the lens, and you can't stand that I've already seen the real you."
The audacity of him weaponizing their shared history in the middle of a multi-million dollar shoot caused Penelope's control to snap like a dry twig.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," she hissed, her green eyes turning to ice. "I don't have time for this amateur emotional blackmail. If you compromise this campaign with your 'vision,' I will bury your career. I will personally ensure you never hold a camera in this city again."
Harlow's expression hardened, the playful arrogance vanishing into a cold, professional steel. "That's a personal threat, Penelope. Not a valid creative critique."
"Take it as both," she replied, her own eyes blazing. "Stick to the brief, Harlow. Or we'll revisit your contract."
She turned on her heel and swept off the set, leaving a wake of stunned silence. Behind her, the set manager stood frozen, realizing the "friction" between the Executive Director and the photographer was no longer a rumor—it was a forest fire.
Penelope retreated to her office, the heavy door clicking shut with a thud. She slumped against the wood, burying her face in her hands. She had to model for him in two days—to let him direct her, watch her, and capture her every move through that glass. If they were already at war now, she wasn't sure there would be anything left of her composure by the time the flagship shoot was over.