Serving In The Snow

Chapter 1

one

KIT

Nothing New – Taylor Swift, Phoebe Bridgers

Imiss bread.

Slumped in my makeup chair, the steel-boned corset of my dress threatened to squeeze the life out of me as my eyes devoured the festive food laid out by catering.

Perfectly symmetrical carrot sticks. Dainty cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches with their crusts neatly trimmed.

Holly jolly themed labels stabbed into lumps of cheese and dips: Yule Brie Mine, Sleigh My Name Cheddar, and Ho-Ho-Hummus peeked from the platters like private jokes. It all mocked me.

Seriously, what’s the point of an all-you-can-eat buffet at a photoshoot other than to torture the models?

But the anxiety of being wrangled back into this outfit with safety pins by the already overworked wardrobe assistants was enough to keep me from temptation.

One bite, and I’d risk exile for crimes against couture.

“Still waiting?” Sienna’s voice cut through my hunger-fuelled haze. She somehow managed to look effortlessly glamorous in only a bikini top and a skirt that shimmered like silver fish scales.

Side by side, we looked like we’d been styled for completely different shoots: me, a wrapped Christmas present; her, a mermaid at a Las Vegas pool party.

“Looks like they’re almost ready.” I gestured vaguely at the chaos around us.

“Will I be seeing you at the afters?” Sienna dropped into the chair next to me. “I think they’ve hired out Isabelle’s. I’ve never been.”

I had to bite my tongue. I’d been a private member of Isabelle’s for years.

During what the press called my ‘wild child’ era in my early twenties – which felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality hadn't even been a decade – the club had been my second home. Velvet booths, gold-leaf ceilings, and the kind of lighting that made every secret feel seductive. I knew every bartender by name, had my favourite booth in the back corner, and more than a few memories I wasn’t quite ready to revisit.

“I’m not sure,” I answered, a familiar heat curling in my chest, equal parts anger and resignation. The sparkle of industry parties had long since dulled. Years of being around men who get far too grabby after the second bottle is uncorked will do that.

“Oh, come on, it’s supposed to be amazing. You practically invented the afterparty. Or have you retired the champagne-soaked chaos act?”

The word landed too sharply coming from her – bright-eyed and untouched by the kind of trouble that waits backstage, behind closed doors, after the lights go down. Retired. I knew it all too well, and maybe I had grown tired of it all. The glitz losing its glamour.

Stumbling out of clubs, blackout drunk, only to be met by the blinding flash of a pack of hungry photographers.

Hungover mornings paired with black coffee and an upskirt photo from the night before splattered across the tabloids.

Doing it all again to numb the sharp ache that kind of harassment left behind.

“No, I can’t make it,” I said firmly. “I have plans.”

Sienna moved on, rattling off all the parties she was hoping to make it to, all attended by names I had known for years, a mix of old friends and famous faces.

Behind her, the set was a circus of missed deadlines and frayed tempers.

The gaffer adjusted the lights for the fifteenth time; someone else re-draped a backdrop.

All to satisfy the photographer, Pierre Alexander.

He’d been stomping around all morning, alternating between throwing tantrums and muttering to himself.

There was minimal editorial presence from the magazine on set after a flu had wiped out half the staff.

And with hours to spare, Pierre had taken it upon himself to change the artistic direction entirely.

And yet, somehow, it was always the models who were blamed for being difficult.

“It’s been ages,” Sienna said. “How much longer do you think they’ll take?”

I almost laughed. She had no idea. Six months into her meteoric rise and Sienna was still new to the scene, her world an endless parade of first-class flights and front-page features.

I’d been doing this since I was fifteen, excluding one quiet season I spent in Zürich, and most of the girls I started with were long gone. For the few who hadn’t found Prince Charming, offers dried up the moment they turned thirty,

Little did Sienna know this glamour had an expiration date.

“Hard to say.” I studied Pierre, who was jittering his way around the set, barking orders while darting towards the bathroom. “Judging by his vibe, I’d give him five minutes to bump a couple of lines. Then he’ll be good to go.”

Sienna followed my gaze, then smirked. “Think he’ll share?”

I raised a brow. “Didn’t you get fired from a job last week for that?”

We weren’t particularly close – she was barely eighteen to my twenty-nine – but I’d had some friends working that shoot, and they’d dished out the gossip over vodka martinis and a shared bowl of olives.

“Didn’t stop me from booking this job.”

Ah, youth. I’d watched girls like her come and go, stars burning bright and fast before fizzling out. In an industry obsessed with new, I was a rare holdover. But I could feel my time growing short.

Pierre burst back into the room, his expression now equal parts irritation and excitement. Clapping twice, he shouted across the room. “Alright, people! Let’s get Kit Sinclair changed into the new wardrobe before lighting has to compensate for another decade.”

Another decade? Like I was a pint of milk with an expiry date slapped across my forehead.

Is that all the industry sees me as?

I looked at the wardrobe department to ask what the hell was going on, but judging from their expressions, it wasn’t worth it unless I wanted to get pricked in the side with a pin when they refitted me.

Following them back to the fitting room filled with racks of designer and couture clothing, I wondered which outfit I’d be stitched into. Instead, I was promptly presented with what they called a bikini but looked more like pieces of tinfoil strung together.

I held it up, the tiny silver pieces catching on the light. “That barely passes for fabric!”

“I don’t make the rules.” The assistant peeled my original dress from me. “Pierre’s changed the concept,” she added, sounding resigned.

“To what?” I let out a bitter laugh.

The creatives were allowed to make very slight changes, but they should’ve been in contact with the magazine to make sure it was all approved.

“Where is the magazine rep? Editors? A designer?” I stepped into the bikini bottoms, frowning at my reflection in the mirror. I have a great arse, but in this monstrosity even it looked terrible.

“It’s three days before Christmas. Did you really think they were going to show up?

” she asked with a tired shrug, helping to tie the top of the costume around my torso.

The rough material grated against my skin.

“Besides, anyone who isn’t already on annual leave has been wiped out by the flu.

There’s nobody senior enough to stop him. ”

I suspected there was more to the story, but I didn’t bother to question it. I was another pretty face – a mannequin expected to show up, look hot, and leave.

Usually, I left the difficult questions for my agent, Claire, but since she hadn’t bothered to show up or answer my several calls, I figured she wasn’t going to be much help in this situation either.

“I hate this fucking industry sometimes,” I muttered as she finished her work. She spun me around so I could take in my reflection, and my stomach dropped further.

“Tell me about it. But it’s a job,” she said, her warm hands still holding onto my arms, the heat sinking into my chilled skin.

Her words sounded far away despite her closeness as I inspected my reflection.

My body was scarcely covered, the scraps barely concealing my fucking nipples, let alone my breasts.

Her tone dropped as she made eye contact with me through the mirror. “Are you okay with this?”

I wasn’t okay with this. However, I’d found myself in worse situations, and the last thing I wanted was to derail an already chaotic shoot. “What was wrong with the dress?”

“Apparently, it didn’t fit the new concept.”

Of course it didn’t. The ‘concept’ probably came to him in a bathroom stall two minutes ago.

I’d met my fair share of rogue photographers who thought they knew more than the corporate mega-minds of the fashion world. Whether it was drug or ego induced, they got too lost in the creative aspect of the shoot and forgot that we were, in fact, here in the name of capitalism.

My brows pressed together. “We might as well stick stars on my nipples. It’d cover more.”

It wasn’t as though I’d never done a bikini shoot – hell, I’d done more nude campaigns than I could count. Calvin Klein. Yves Saint Laurent. Beachside in Saint-Tropez so I wouldn’t get tan lines. Every time, it was on my terms. I felt safe with those photographers.

My gut, trained by well over a decade in this industry, told me this wasn’t that. I’d met men like him before, the kind who use their professional authority to pressure women into saying yes to something that’s not okay.

This didn’t feel like art. It felt like an excuse to strip me down and leave me exposed – for him.

“I’m not sure what the magazine will say, but without a rep, he’s got the final say,” the assistant said.

While it would be easier to get this over and done with, I knew that once the magazine saw these photos, there was no way they were going to be approved. Then my arse would be hauled back here. Or, worse yet, not get paid.

“Okay…Fuck.”

Over the assistant’s shoulder, I spotted a long, elegant fur coat on one of the racks, and, in a split second, I made a decision. “Pass over the coat,” I said, pointing towards it.