Chapter 80 Isabelle
Isabelle
Auntie Lee had departed and Isabelle’s mother was getting ready for the ballet—she was going with some other moms to see Giselle performed in the Odeon of Herodes Atticus open-air theater at the Acropolis.
Even nerdy Flora was out for the night, meeting with her computer friends at a nearby café.
The timing was perfect for Isabelle to sneak away to her first real modeling job.
The photographer, Spyros Alexandros, had sent her a DM via Instagram:
I would like to offer an artistic photography opportunity. Portfolio development for international modeling. Compensation provided.
Isabelle messaged back, and they arranged to meet at his home studio. Isabelle didn’t mention the appointment to anyone, not even Anastasia. She told her mom she was going to the movies.
Spyros’s mansion was a 1930s modernist masterpiece, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. He was handsome in a European way, with the kind of confidence that came from always being the most important person in the room.
“Wine?” Spyros offered, already pouring. “This is from my family’s vineyard on Naxos. We’ll need you relaxed for the shoot.”
Isabelle accepted a glass. Spyros led her through rooms filled with antiques and artwork, his hand occasionally touching her lower back.
She pulled out her phone and snapped a selfie—her blood-red dress perfectly positioned to show her prominent collarbones.
She looked mysterious, elegant, like someone with secrets worth knowing.
She posted to her story, already anticipating the likes, the comments, the attention.
“Beautiful,” Spyros said, watching her pose. “But now it is time to put the phone away.”
“What?”
“My shoots require absolute focus.”
Isabelle hesitated for just a moment before giving him her phone, ignoring a small twisting feeling in her stomach.
“The other models are already here,” Spyros said, leading Isabelle deeper into the house. “You’ll work with them initially. Team shots—professional, artistic. OK?”
Isabelle nodded. Maybe it was OK. Yearning to be seen and a small bit of fear made her chest hot. Her breath was short. Just nerves, she told herself.
In the dining room, a long walnut table was set with crystal and silver. White roses and olive branches served as a centerpiece. About a dozen young women were already seated—all beautiful, all trying hard to look older than they were. Isabelle didn’t recognize anyone.
The girls looked glassy-eyed. And the men around the table—older men with expensive clothes and predatory smiles—did not look like photographers or crew. They were holding wineglasses. They were watching. Something felt off. Isabelle could barely get a breath in. Her lungs were tight.
“Yet another model,” said a brunette who looked about fifteen—but she couldn’t be fifteen! There was no way. “Sit down, new girl.”
Spyros stood behind a chair at the head of the table. Isabelle sat, and he placed his large, cold hands on her shoulders as someone took a photo with a phone.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured near her ear, his breath warm and smelling of cigarettes. “The camera loves you already.”
Could Isabelle’s wine be making her dizzy? Spyros offered her a cigarette, and she accepted it and a light from his match.
“Tell me about your family,” Spyros said, refilling her glass. “Your mother, your father, they are Greek?”
“No,” Isabelle paused, her mind feeling fuzzy. “My mom is American. She’s going through some things right now. Midlife crisis stuff.”
“Ah, yes. Women of a certain age.” His smile was sympathetic, understanding. “It must be difficult, being mature while surrounded by…instability.”
Isabelle smiled. “Yes,” she murmured. “It is difficult.” Spyros didn’t know the half of it, although Isabelle’s mom really was trying to be normal.
Isabelle forgave her mom—of course she did—but a hot fury remained in Isabelle’s body.
There was nowhere for the anger to go…Isabelle hoped it would somehow vanish.
Around the table, the other girls laughed nervously and fidgeted while the men—men in their thirties and forties and fifties—watched them creepily.
“You should try this,” the brunette said, sliding a small silver tray toward Isabelle. White powder arranged in neat lines. “It helps with nerves. For the shoot.”
Isabelle hesitated for just a moment. She’d taken drugs with Anastasia, but this was different. She was alone here, and she didn’t know what was in the powder.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” Spyros said smoothly. “Only if you’re comfortable. Though I think you’ll find it enhances your performance.”
Isabelle leaned forward, following the brunette’s example, feeling a burn, an immediate rush. The room became brighter, sharper. Her tongue felt loose, her body electric. She belonged in rooms like this.
Ah, thought Isabelle, tagging Atelier Nyx and its impressive address, so this is what power feels like.
“Much better,” Spyros said, his hand finding her thigh under the table. “Now we can begin.”