Chapter 103 Aurélie #3
The silence dragged for a beat too long.
Then the assistant gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, my God, you are!”
I went crimson. I could feel it blooming from my chest to my cheeks.
My ass was still sore from being spanked, my panties still wet.
I felt, in every sense of the word, fucked.
But these strangers didn’t need to know it.
Ivy, cool as ever, took a casual step forward, arms crossing as she surveyed the room as if she’d just been promoted to Creative Director.
“Well,” she said with a dry smile, “isn’t that the exact vibe we’re going for tonight?” She gestured toward me. “Look at her. It’s literal editorial gold. Raw, daring, and sexy as hell.”
The assistants paused, visibly recalibrating, clearly trying to work with what they had. Which, judging by a glance in the mirror, wasn’t the easiest pill to swallow. My voluminous styled curls were tangled, the skin around my mouth red and my lipgloss worn off, my mascara a little bit smudged.
One nodded slowly, then another. “Okay, yeah. We can work with that.”
Suddenly, I was being spun toward the vanity. They fluffed my hair a little higher, spritzed something floral and sticky over my shoulders, and dabbed concealer under my eyes. My lipstick was reapplied in a shade called Afterglow. The irony, I swear to God.
Ivy caught my eye in the mirror, a devilish smile playing on her lips. I narrowed my eyes at her in return, silently telling her to keep her goddamn mouth shut if she wanted another one-on-one conversation with me.
Minutes later, I was being ushered out onto the set, kitten heels clacking on the floor. The lights were already blazing, the flash umbrellas positioned, the creative director mid-rant about lighting angles.
The set itself was a dream—lush red velvet draped across a steel-framed backdrop.
Neon lights glowed in crimson and gold behind me, throwing shadows that danced across the floor.
A single chair sat in the center, vintage and oversized, with an open back and a dramatic curve that practically begged for something sinful.
The team photographer waved me toward it. “Right there, babe. Give me tired and sated. A little messy, like you’ve just been ruined.”
I blinked. Ivy barely contained her laughter behind me.
“Oh,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. “They have no idea.”
I shot her a dirty look before sauntering over to the chair.
I eased into the shoot without thinking, muscle memory taking over.
My body moved on autopilot, limbs stretching, arching, obeying quiet cues from the photographer.
Chin up. Eyes low. Fingers in my hair. Spine curved.
One knee hooked over the arm of the velvet chair, the other dropped to the floor so my legs were spread wide.
It was instinctual now, this seduction for the camera. I’d been doing it long enough to know how to disappear into the moment, to project the fantasy they wanted, but I wasn’t really here, not entirely.
I could still feel him, still taste him. The burn in my thighs, the bruised swell of my lips, the heat that hadn’t left me since I ran barefoot through the paddock like a feral little thing chasing the high of being desired.
My gaze drifted toward the back corner of the studio. Ivy leaned against the wall, her arms folded, mouth curled into something half-smirk, half-study. Every so often, she’d raise a brow at a pose, or bite her nail in amusement, but she never interrupted, just watched.
The slip clung to my frame, the satin catching on every curve as I posed. My breath remained shallow, my brain fuzzy, floating somewhere between pleasure and performance. I wasn’t sure what to make of anything.
“All right, babe,” the photographer said out of the blue, lifting the camera away from his face and straightening. “Let’s drop the slip.”
The words hit like a slap to the face. All the air in my lungs rushed out.
“Let’s see that gorgeous set underneath,” someone added from off-camera. “You’re glowing tonight. We want to show all of it.”
I hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as I reached for the thin straps.
I could do this. I’d done it before. Except I hadn’t done it with my entire ass freshly spanked and marked up like I was Callum’s personal property.
And judging by the ever-present sting of my flesh every time I moved, I knew it would be visible.
With a deep inhale, I slid the straps off my shoulders.
The satin slipped down, pooling at my feet.
I stepped out of the fabric and adjusted the angle of my hips, posing one knee to the side to avoid a full frontal, something sexy but tasteful.
It exposed the wine red lingerie set—lace bra, matching panties, garter set. It was all unbearably hot.
A few flashes went off. I forced myself to hold still, to play the part.
“Now let’s get a few from the back!” someone called cheerfully.
I froze. No. No, no, no, no—
I turned slightly, easing into a twist that offered my profile, then began to shift into the back-facing pose they wanted, ever so slowly and carefully, but the throbbing heat on my skin told me this would be a mistake.
Oh. My. God.
I glanced over my shoulder and nearly fainted.
There, across the bare cheeks of my ass, were his fucking handprints.
Two on each side. Faint red, but unmistakably there.
His fingers curved like brands into the soft flesh, one slightly higher than the other on both cheeks.
I wanted to keel over from mortification.
Every single fucking person here would know what I was into sexually. Fuck, this was bad. This was so much worse than getting caught, because this could potentially go out to the whole world, showing them some of the kinky shit I liked. I may as well paint a giant red “A” on my chest.
The room was quiet for a beat too long.
“Oh, my God,” someone finally said. “Are those—?”
I gasped, immediately spinning back around, arms flailing for the slip. “I need a minute!”
“Wait, hold on, what was that?”
“Were those handprints?”
“Holy shit.”
“Did someone spank her?”
The studio buzzed in confusion and curiosity, assistants whispering behind their clipboards, someone snapping an unapproved photo before being smacked on the arm.
I snatched up the slip and practically dove behind the wardrobe divider, breathing hard, clutching the fabric to my chest like a life raft.
From the other side, Ivy’s voice rang out, way too casual. “If you’re smart, you’ll make that the campaign.”
I barely had time to catch my breath behind the divider before the curtain whipped open and Ivy slipped inside, calm as ever.
“Breathe,” she said, closing it behind her. “You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine,” I hissed, clutching the slip to my chest as if that was doing anything at all to cover me. “I have Callum’s handprints on my ass, Ivy. That was not supposed to happen!”
She gave me a once-over, eyes sharp. “And yet… you look incredible.”
I blinked at her, stunned.
She leaned in, voice dropping low. “Lingerie isn’t just about feeling sexy, Aurélie. It’s about what it leads to. That’s the fantasy. The aftermath. The evidence of pleasure.”
My mouth opened. No words came out.
“You don’t just look sexy—you look ravaged.
And that?” She pointed toward the studio.
“That’s exactly what this brand wants. The unspoken story.
The fantasy you can’t buy in a bottle or stage with a wind machine.
You walked out there looking like you’d just been worshipped, and every person in that room wanted to be you—or wanted to be the reason you looked like that.
They want to show a woman who was desired so badly someone craved her, took her, and marked her. That’s what this is.”
She paused, letting that sink in, then added with a smirk, “Sex sells. Always has. Always will. And you, darling, just sold the fuck out of it.”
I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wrong, but my entire body felt like a wire about to snap.
“And you know what else?” Her voice dipped even lower. “It’s proof that we can chase our own pleasure. That we can feel beautiful, and wrecked, and wanted, and be proud of it. You look like you had an incredible fucking night, and if anyone has a problem with that, let me handle it.”
Then, before I could even respond, she stepped away from me and turned to the entire studio.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“This shoot just became iconic. She doesn’t need to hide anything.
You all just captured real sexual energy, the kind you can’t fake.
This is fantasy, yes, but it’s also authentic.
It’s everything this brand claims to represent. ”
A hush fell over the room. Even the makeup artist approaching me froze.
“If you’re smart, you’ll lean into this.
She’s not a scandal; she’s the model. You’re looking at France’s Thirty Under Thirty, and you’re worried about a few handprints?
Please. You just witnessed the exact moment a rising icon took full ownership of her story.
And if anyone here has even the slightest issue with that, then I suggest you speak now, because you’ll be signing an NDA before you walk out of this building. ”
Someone behind me muttered “Holy shit” under her breath. Another stylist grabbed a makeup brush with trembling fingers and busied themselves with fixing the shine on my cheekbones.
Ivy clapped once. “Great. Let’s reset the lighting and shoot from the front. Someone get her a glass of water. She stays in hair and makeup as-is. We’re capturing the aftermath.”
I stared at her, completely undone. My heart beat wildly against my ribs, my pulse too loud in my ears.
My body still ached from what Callum had done to me.
And now this? Tears welled in my eyes, hot and unrelenting.
Because for the first time in what felt like forever…
someone was in my corner. She was a complete stranger, and even though she owed me nothing, she stood there and refused to let me spiral.
This was someone who could protect me at all costs without risking a scandal.
And that? That nearly ruined me more than anything else.