Cassidy #3
“Cost? We’re already burning through this budget faster than I’d like.”
The two of them jump into the numbers as Hallie rips Leonie’s images from the concept board.
“Right. We can sulk about it after we’ve fixed it.
We’ve still got a campaign to deliver,” Hallie says, turning to the rest of the group.
In her mid-thirties, with dark hair twisted into a practical knot and sharp amber eyes that never seemed to miss a thing, she sweeps through the room like a force of nature, gathering the scattered panic into something productive.
Everyone immediately starts talking at once. Papers slide across the table, someone reaches over me for a fabric swatch, and I can barely figure out who is saying what as I try to take cohesive notes.
“What alternatives have we got?”
“Has legal confirmed what she can actually take with her?”
“We’ll need to reshoot the lifestyle set.”
“The launch date—”
“I know,” Hallie says, cutting through the noise. “One problem at a time.”
Leonie was a lovely girl, one of the models who were still down to Earth, despite her fame. She’d hugged me after the last shoot because I’d managed to find the exact jewellery she’d wanted after everyone else had given up looking.
I had no idea she was unhappy. I suppose you never really know what’s going on behind someone’s professional smile.
“Right, Cassidy, I need you to head over and find this omega and get a handle of her schedule so we can get this shoot locked in.”
I nod, even as trepidation fills me. Orion’s gaze locks on me, an unsettling awareness in his firm alpha stance.
“Talk to Seph, not any of the others that might try and interfere,” he says, and I nod hesitantly.
“Is she going into some shit down there?” Harlan demands.
Orion shakes his head. “Of course not. You’ll be fine, Cassidy.”
Okay, then.
Harlan dismisses me, and I grab Persephone’s file, and my laptop, before escaping from that extremely tense meeting.
Not going to lie, I’m a tiny bit jealous of the other interns for escaping that terrifying atmosphere.
Sometimes, something being above your pay grade is a genuinely good thing.
Finding Persephone proves surprisingly easy. The modelling department occupies the floor above ours, and the moment I step out of the lift, I can tell that the vast majority of these people are omegas.
The lighting is softer up here, without the harsh white glare from downstairs. The air smells faintly of powder, warm fabric, and half a dozen blended omega scents, while rolling racks of clothes line the walls.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist peers over a wide cream desk, her sleek headset tucked beneath one ear while three phones blink beside her keyboard.
I startle, giving her a half smile as I approach the desk.
“What are you looking for?” she asks without giving me a chance to answer her first question.
“Oh, I just need to chat with—”
“Model, hair and beauty, or—” Her phone rings, cutting her off.
“Model,” I say quickly.
“Go through the corridor, and you’ll spot a sign with their room numbers on the wall.”
Then she picks up her phone, answering in French rather than English.
Wow, okay.
I keep my head low as I follow the corridor past half open fitting rooms and come to a stop in front of the board.
In room seven is P. Hollis, and I’m relieved that this was easier than I thought.
Her door is open, and I see her sitting alone in her office. Garment bags hang from hooks along one wall, while a large sofa bed fills most of the room, layered in cream and pale pink blankets. She’s perched on the end, her mind a million miles away.
She doesn’t look anything like the woman in the dossier.
She still has the same rich chestnut hair, although it’s been gathered into a loose braid that falls over one shoulder.
She’s wearing an oversized cream cardigan that all but swallows her slender frame, her long legs tucked neatly beneath her.
The elegance is still there. But there’s something else that her shot was missing—something I’m constantly looking at in the mirror.
Anxiety.
She’s twisting the sleeve of her cardigan around her fingers over and over again, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
I recognise that feeling far too well. I make sure my footsteps are loud enough not to startle her, and I knock on her door as calmly as I can.
“Persephone?”
Her head snaps up. Warm hazel eyes meet mine, immediately widening.
“Oh. Hi. Sorry for the mess,” she says, quickly scrambling to her feet.
Her notebook slides from her lap and lands on the floor with a slap.
“Oh, goodness—sorry—I...”
Her cheeks flush bright pink as she crouches to retrieve it.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, dropping down to help her before she can apologise again.
A tiny, uncertain laugh escapes her. “Thank you.”
When we both stand again, she clutches the notebook tightly against her chest like a shield.
“I’m Cassidy,” I say softly. “Cassidy Hargrove.”
Recognition flashes across her face. “The stylist?”
I blink in shock. “You know who I am?”
She nods quickly. “I try to remember everyone’s names.”
Of course, she does.
An omega walking into one of the biggest fashion houses in the country. I’d have done exactly the same.
“Do you have a few moments for a conversation?” I ask with a smile.
Confusion flickers across her face.
“Just about a shoot we’re wanting some assistance with,” I add quickly.
“Oh.” Her eyes drop to the floor again, and she nods quickly. “Of course.”
I close the door, muting the bustle from the corridor, and she gestures towards the narrow desk tucked beside the window.
“You can sit in your nest,” I say, shaking my head when she goes to protest. “Please, I fully get it. My office might not have a lovely sofa bed, but I’ve got my own nest built there so I can hide from… all of this.”
She shivers and retreats deeper into the sofa bed while I pull the spare chair away from her desk, leaving a careful stretch of space between us so I don’t crowd her nest.
“It can be overwhelming,” she admits. The words come out so quietly I almost miss them.
My chest aches. “It really can. I’ve been here a few months now, and I’m still terrified I’m going to get fired.”
Her shoulders sag just a fraction, and she gives me a tentative smile. “Honestly, me, too.”
“Did you know one of the models here has just left? Leonie?” I ask, and she nods. “Yes, well, we’re in a bit of an uproar downstairs, and we’re looking to do a reshoot on one of her campaigns so as not to fight for space with Visaro.”
She tilts her head. “I’ve been chosen to… be her substitute?”
“Um, yes.” I bite my lip when her eyes widen. “Orion, the product coordinator, he mentioned you had the time and…”
“Oh, of course, he did,” she says brightly.
It’s fake, though. I know that tone all too well.
“What is your schedule currently like?” I ask tentatively.
Persephone’s fingers tighten around her notebook. “I’m free.”
The answer comes very quickly. Her bright smile stretches a little wider, and something uncomfortable prickles beneath my skin.
“Completely?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve got something starting soon, but for the next few weeks, I’m free.”
“Oh.” I glance down at the file resting across my knees. There are several bookings listed here, although none of them appear to be confirmed. I thought we were going to struggle to get on her books, not have unlimited access to her.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod. “Orion gave me a file, and it lists you as doing a lot of preliminary work for a campaign with… Evren?”
Her scent changes. It’s subtle. A brief flicker of something sour beneath the soft warmth already perfuming the room.
“Not yet,” she says carefully. “They’re still deciding whether I’m suitable.”
Suitable?
She’s genuinely one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen.
“I can’t imagine they’d have any concerns about using you,” I say confused.
Her laugh is quiet and strangely hollow. She smooths one manicured thumb over the edge of her notebook without looking at me. “Evren Vasile is a very big name, and I’m not.”
“I’ve heard of him, but…” I trail off. “Sorry, I can’t lie, I don’t know much about modelling politics.”
She grimaces. “That’s probably a good thing.”
Everyone has heard of Evren. He’s one of the most famous omega models in the world, with his face plastered across everything from perfume campaigns to billboards.
Being paired with him should be exciting, and yet, Persephone looks like I’ve threatened to put her in front of a firing squad.
“Is there a problem with the campaign?” I ask gently.
Her gaze flies to mine. “No.”
Another immediate answer.
Another lie.
“No, everyone’s been incredibly supportive,” she adds. “I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”
Before I can say anything else, raised voices carry through the thin wall from the corridor. Persephone’s shoulders draw tight beneath her cardigan, and we both look towards the door as if they’re about to barge through it.
They’re angry, whoever they are, and my heart races when someone knocks on the door.
Persephone’s breath catches. Neither of us move.
“Hollis?”
Her scent turns sharp enough to sting my throat. She looks at me, panic shining in her hazel eyes, before forcing another smile onto her face.
“Seph, are you there?” another voice asks.
“My agent,” she whispers, relieved.
Something cold settles in my stomach. Because I know what fear smells like.
And whatever Persephone is frightened of with this campaign—it’s not the work.
The door pushes open, and two alphas fill the narrow entrance. The older man steps in first, salt-and-pepper hair swept neatly back and a dark designer suit sitting perfectly across his lean frame.
The other alpha stays half a step behind him, taller and younger, dressed in charcoal with a phone still held loosely in one long-fingered hand.
“Who are you?” the man at the front asks. His steel grey gaze moves over me in one slow, assessing sweep before he brushes a speck of invisible lint from Persephone’s shoulder.