Chapter 16
Olivia
“Anything you’d like to request?” The makeup artist Reed hired stands at the ready, an eyeshadow palette open in one hand. “Do you have a specific color in mind, or—”
“Well, this is the dress,” I say, gesturing down at my torso. I’m wearing the gown that Riley and Sophie helped me pick out. “I’d like it to match, but—” I hesitate for a moment. “I don’t want it to be too over-the-top, you know?”
Over-the-top isn’t my style, for one thing.
But for another—these photos are probably going to circulate widely.
I don’t want people to cast any aspersions about me.
I don’t want to give off the wrong impression—the idea that I’m just another in a string of disposable girls having a tryst with Reed.
The engagement photoshoot is scheduled for an hour from now, and Reed has arranged for me to get the royal treatment. There are two separate stylists here—one for my hair, and another for my makeup.
I should probably feel special and pampered by all this attention, but it just serves to make me feel like I’m under a spotlight. I’m so nervous, I feel like I can’t even move in this expensive dress.
It’s not me. I can’t stop thinking that everyone is going to see right through our lie. Everyone is going to realize that we’re faking it. I’m trying to play my part, but it’s so hard, and I feel like I’m already screwing it up.
The makeup artist gives me an understanding smile. “We’ll go light on the eyeshadow,” she says. “Just enough to make your eyes pop in the pictures. You have really pretty eyes.”
I nod at her gratefully. “Thanks.”
The makeup artist and the hairstylist go to work on me in tandem, and I stare at the girl in the mirror as they transform me. It’s difficult to keep as still as they want me to, and several times, the hairstylist has to grab my head to keep it steady.
When they’re done, I can hardly recognize myself.
My hair is loose, falling in gentle waves over my shoulders.
The stylist used some kind of sweet-smelling oil that gives it a glossy shine.
My makeup is perfect, though it’s a little more than I was hoping for—crisp eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow tinged with a deep red that matches the dress.
I look amazing, but… I also don’t look like myself. This woman in the mirror… she’s someone else. Someone rich. And the whole production leaves me feeling more than a little intimidated.
The stylists shuffle me off into the photo studio, and I can hardly walk in the dress as they shepherd me along.
It’s humiliating. I barely feel like a person as I step out in front of the classic white backdrop, taking my place next to Reed.
The photographer, a lanky, wiry-haired man, barks directions, and several other workers adjust the lights—and adjust our bodies, making sure we’re posed correctly. Everything’s so bright, I can’t stop squinting. The lights are scorching my retinas.
The photographer points at me. “Open your eyes! We need to be able to see your eyes.”
I do my best to comply, but I must look like a dead fish with my eyelids peeled back like this. I can tell that the photographer isn’t happy with my expression, but for the moment, he goes back to directing his staff.
This is so much—this production. There must be ten or fifteen people in this room, just to take a few photographs. Is this really all necessary?
Beside me, Reed seems so relaxed, perfectly dressed in a maroon suit jacket that goes with the burgundy colors in my dress. He wears a white shirt beneath it, and matching slacks.
Reed’s time in the makeup chair is less noticeable than mine, but they’ve given him a light touch-up. His hair is swept back and moussed. He looks like he’s about to appear on the cover of GQ.
His camera-readiness only makes me more anxious. He’s doing his part just fine. If this goes poorly, I’m the problem.
As the photographer fusses with the camera, Reed glances down at me, smiling. His grin fades when he meets my gaze.
He can read me a little too well. “Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice.
I offer him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
His brow furrows. Before he can say anything else to me, the photographer calls out in a booming voice, “Is everyone ready? Let’s take our positions, you two.”
I do my best to hold the pose he wanted from me—my hand on Reed’s waist, his arm over my shoulders. It’s stiff and strange. I wouldn’t stand like this naturally.
And what is this picture going to turn out like, anyway? Is it just going to be the two of us, dressed to the nines, standing in front of an endless white void?
“Ms. Quinn, I need to see a little more joy from you,” the photographer says, sounding exasperated. “You look like you’re in pain. At least try and pretend that you’re happy to be engaged, eh?”
It’s a joke, of course—the photographer doesn’t know this is all fake—but it stings nonetheless. It’s a reminder that I have a role to play, and an even more biting reminder that I’m failing to play it.
Reed glances down at me, concerned, and my heartbeat quickens. He must think that I’m going to screw this up. He must be worried about his future.
The photographer snaps a few pictures, then steps away from his camera, scowling deeply. He walks over to one of the techs in the corner, and the two of them put their heads together, muttering.
“Reed,” I whisper. “I feel like I’m blowing this.”
“What are you talking about?” he replies softly. “You look beautiful.”
I swallow, trying to calm myself down and take solace in the compliment, but I can’t shake the nerves in the pit of my stomach.
After a long moment, the photographer approaches us, camera in-hand. “We have a bit of a problem.”
“Oh, yeah?” Reed says. “What’s up?”
“Why don’t you take a look at a few of these shots and see for yourself.”
The photographer holds the camera out to the two of us, and Reed takes it, holding it low so that I can see the screen. At once, I see what the photographer meant.
These photos are completely unusable. In each one of them, I look stiff and emotionless, like a subject in a flat, medieval painting. The camera loves Reed, of course, but that only makes the problem worse—next to him, I’m like a mannequin, a plastic figure displaying a gorgeous dress.
“See what I mean?” I mumble to Reed, who purses his lips, but doesn’t comment.
He hands the camera back to the photographer. “Yeah, these aren’t great,” he says casually, like he doesn’t care that much one way or the other.
The photographer raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me,” he mutters. He’s annoyed; I can practically feel the irritation radiating off him in waves, setting the rest of the techs on edge, too.
“Can we have a second?” Reed asks. “I need to ask my fiancé something in private, if that’s alright.”
The photographer hesitates, then nods brusquely, pacing away. He waves a hand to draw the attention of the other techs working on the photoshoot. “Take five, everyone.”
They start to clear out of the room, leaving me and Reed alone on the photo set. Reed puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. It’s a good thing he did it, because I’m so rigid in this dress that I couldn’t have moved on my own.
“Seriously,” he says. “What’s going on?”
I try my best to shrug; the dress makes it hard, and I don’t want to ruin my perfect, silky hair before the photoshoot. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
Reed frowns. “Do you remember the other night, when you asked me to communicate with you more?”
I nod, not sure what that has to do with the shoot. I knew we’d be taking our engagement photos today. None of this has been a surprise; I should have been ready for it.
“That’s a two-way street,” Reed tells me. “You need to let me know how you’re feeling. I want to make you comfortable. I really, really do. But if I don’t know what’s wrong…”
He trails off, leaving the sentence hanging. For a few seconds, I’m silent, floundering for a response.
I agreed to this. I signed off on it, in pen, on a legally-binding document. I know that it’s a necessary part of our plan, and I don’t want to jeopardize it just because I’m a little uncomfortable. I can deal.
So I shake my head again. “Really, it’s fine. I’m good.”
Reed’s eyes narrow, like he doesn’t fully believe me. When the photography techs start to file back into the room, he lifts his voice to be heard by them all. “Hey, everyone, we’re going to change things up a little, okay?”
“What are you doing?” I whisper to him, but he doesn’t answer me.
Instead, he takes my hand and approaches the photographer, who is messing with the settings on his camera.
“Listen, we’ve been talking about the whole setup here,” Reed says. “It’s really impressive, and all, but it doesn’t really fit with the aesthetic we’re trying to go for.”
The photographer gives him a sour, unimpressed look. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. We were thinking we might want to make this a smaller production.”
“What do you mean by that?” The photographer folds his arms, scowling. It crosses my mind that this is a bad idea. From the moment we arrived, I’ve thought that this guy was a bit of a pretentious prick—the kind you don’t want to irritate.
But Reed’s voice is casual as he replies, “Trust me. This will suit us better.”
The photographer doesn’t argue. Reed turns to the rest of the room, clapping his hands together to draw everyone’s attention.
“Okay!” he calls out. A shadow passes over the photographer’s face, like he’s thinking horrible things about Reed that he can’t say aloud. “Thank you all so much for your hard work, but we’re going to keep things simple from here on. Everyone who’s not taking the pictures—you can leave.”
There’s a good amount of confused muttering at that, but eventually, everyone except for the photographer filters out of the door. When the three of us are alone in the studio, he turns to us with a sneer and a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not sure how you expect me to get good pictures without my staff,” he says. “I need to adjust the lighting in here.”