"Art director?" Ed furrows his brows.
"What the fuck is an art director?" He asks, genuinely baffled.

"It's the person responsible for contacting modelling agencies, picking the models they want to use. Sometimes they do their own scouting and bring in fresh faces. They have a say in the photo shoot, and basically, models and photographers execute their concepts and ideas," Jimmy explains.

"I lost you at 'picks models,' and my interpretation is that he's just a glorified boob squeezer," Ed says, grinning at his own joke.

"The culture and elegance of this group," Gemma mutters, shaking her head.

"Next thing you know, you'll be trying to fart and burp at the same time," she adds.

"I can do that," Jimmy announces proudly, puffing out his chest like a peacock.

"Great. Put it on your CV," Gemma deadpans.

"Tell them, baby," Niall joins in, crossing his arms with exaggerated seriousness.

"Stop it, Ni. I don't suppose you want me to tell them how you named—"

"Babe, no," Niall cuts her off quickly. "They don't need to know everything."

"And for the record," he adds, clearing his throat, "I don't think they're called boob squeezers. They're ass grabbers."

"The combined maturity level of the three of you is equal to that of a crazy chicken," Gemma quips, smacking Niall lightly on the head.

"How do you even measure the maturity of a chicken?" he asks, genuinely perplexed.

"You don't," Gemma replies flatly.

"I rest my case," I say, taking a bite of my cinnamon roll.

"Whoa, Ella," Ed scolds, eyes narrowing. "You need to cut down on those."

Before I can react, he snatches my pastry and devours it in seconds.

"What the hell, Ed?" I glare at him.

"What?" he shrugs, mouth still full, chewing on my food.

"You're about to be a model. It's all Wheaties and bran flakes for you now. Maybe that sad oat mush Harry eats all the time, too," he teases.

"Seriously, though," Jimmy chimes in. "You should start watching what you eat."

"What time is your appointment?" Niall asks.

"Three."

"Burberry offices?" he presses.

"Yeah."

"Did you tell Harry?" Gemma asks, glancing up from her coffee.

"I tried calling this morning, but he rejected my call and texted that he was in a meeting. Said he'd call me as soon as possible," I explain. It's not that I mind telling him—it's just that there should actually be something to tell first.

"Okay," Jimmy nods. "If you need anything, let us know. And don't be disappointed if he doesn't sign you. These guys are weird—one day they're obsessed with you, the next, you're old news. So just..."

"Jim, don't worry about me," I interrupt, reassuring him.

"It's not like I chased after this opportunity. It's a bonus. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, then fine. Worst-case scenario, I lose a lovely afternoon with you guys," I say with a smile.

"What a fucking suck-up," Ed groans, rolling his eyes.

Because, of course, he knows me too well.

I agree to keep everyone posted as I head to my appointment. The building is impressive, to say the least. The doorman directs me to one of the receptionists, who informs me that Mr. Ferguson is expecting me in Studio Seven on the third floor.

I take a moment to smooth my clothes, ensuring they're wrinkle-free, and fix my hair. If I nail this, money will no longer be an issue, and this opportunity could give my fashion journalism career the push it needs. If it doesn't work out? Well, I won't sit and cry over it.

I dig into my bag and check my phone. No messages from Harry yet. It's been hours, but I know how busy he is with negotiations and meetings, so I shove the phone back in, take a deep breath, and press the number three button in the elevator.

As soon as the doors open, I hear voices. The studio is dimly lit with spotlights positioned above a small stage. Soft music plays in the background.

A young woman with short brown hair and black-rimmed glasses spots me immediately. Without a word, she gestures for me to follow her and leads me straight to Nicholas, who is engaged in a conversation with a tall, bohemian-looking guy with long, straight blonde hair and a massive camera in his hands. A table nearby is filled with bags—probably the new collection.

"Ella!" Nicholas exclaims, spotting me. My stomach tightens. Suddenly, I could really use a vodka. How Harry does this for a living without breaking a sweat is beyond me.

"Hello, Mr. Ferguson," I greet politely.

"Nicholas," he corrects.

"Ella, this is Andrew, one of our photographers," he says, motioning toward the blonde man.

I extend my hand, but Andrew barely acknowledges it. His eyes widen slightly before he steps back, biting his lip and studying me—like an artifact in a museum.

Feeling awkward, I withdraw my hand and force a small smile.

"She's interesting," he mutters.

"I'm right here," I quip, my rebellious side kicking in.

"And sassy. Hmmm, I like her already," Andrew chuckles.

"You're not about to throw a phone at me, are you, Naomi?" he teases.

"What?" I blink, confused.

"He's joking, Ella," Nicholas reassures me, then gestures for me to follow him.

He leads me to a dressing room and turns to his assistant.

"Cindy, I need her in number 34," he instructs. Cindy nods and heads off while Nicholas resumes his conversation with Andrew, the eccentric photographer.

"Hi, Cindy! I'm Ella," I say as she hands me a beige jumpsuit.

"Oh! Hi!" she replies, looking slightly surprised.

She hesitates, then blurts out, "I mean, uh... I'm not used to... I mean, the models usually don't..." She trails off, shaking her head.

I instantly understand what she means—most models don't bother introducing themselves, let alone make conversation.

"You've been working with Mr. Ferguson long?" I ask as I change.

"Almost a year," she says, zipping me up.

"Beige and neutral tones are preferable for bag shoots," she explains. "The focus should always be on the product."

"I never thought of that," I admit, smiling.

"You look gorgeous," Cindy tells me.

"Oh, Cindy, thank you. I really needed to hear that right now," I say, feeling my nerves settle slightly.

"Makeup next! Let's go see Linda," she says, grabbing my hand and leading me to the makeup station.

Linda, a stunning blonde with striking blue eyes, greets me warmly. I introduce myself, and we hit it off right away, just like I did with Cindy. She works her magic, making sure I look camera-ready, and before I know it, Cindy is escorting me back to Nicholas and Andrew.

Andrew hums in approval the moment he sees me. His eyes rake over my appearance, and he nods approvingly—but still doesn't address me directly.

Nicholas notices and pulls him aside. After a brief conversation, Andrew's demeanour shifts. Finally, he acknowledges me.

He hands me one of the bags and starts setting the scene, trying to get me to "feel the mood," as he puts it.

I fight the urge to laugh but play along. I follow his instructions as best as I can, and although I assume I must be terrible at this, he keeps praising me. His encouragement makes me feel bolder, more confident. Cindy is by my side the whole time, swapping out the bags as the backdrop behind me changes.

Before I know it, hours have passed. It's 7 p.m.

Andrew seems excited by the results and waves me over to his laptop. He inserts the memory card and, in record time, starts editing—adjusting the light, the shadows, the contrast.

And I have to admit...I look good.

"You did well, E," he tells me, a rare smile appearing on his face.

"Um, thank you. You too!" I attempt to return the compliment, but before I can finish my sentence, Nicholas interrupts.

"She made your work easy, didn't she, Andrew?"

"Natural beauty at its best," Andrew agrees.

I'm used to compliments—people have always commented on my looks. I know my good features and my flaws. But something about Nicholas's tone makes me uncomfortable.

"Thank you," I say softly, keeping my eyes glued to the screen. I don't want to meet his gaze.

Andrew checks his watch.

"Guys, I need to go—I have somewhere to be," he announces, already packing up his equipment.

"Good job again!" he adds.

I blush. "Thanks, you too."

"I should get going too," I say, watching Andrew head toward the elevator.

"Stay a little longer," Nicholas urges. "Let's talk details."

I hesitate for a moment but see no harm in it. I do need to know where I stand.

"Okay," I agree.

Nicholas nods and gestures toward the elevator. "Follow me to my office."

As we step inside, he turns to Cindy.

"Cindy, please check everything here before you leave. Have a good night."

Cindy nods, heading off to finish her tasks, leaving me alone with Nicholas as we ascend to the eighth floor.

The silence in the elevator is awkward. Unsettling.

A shiver runs down my spine.

"This way," he gestures down a long corridor, my heels clicking against the polished floor as I follow him.

Finally, we reach his office.

"This is it. Please, come in," he says, stepping inside first to turn on the lights.

His movements are...odd. He grabs a framed photo from his desk and tucks it away in a drawer, smiling a little too awkwardly before gesturing for me to sit.

Then, as if on instinct, he shuts the door.

"So, Ella... you must realize how photogenic you are. Andrew made that quite clear," Nicholas says smoothly.

I nod, already on edge.

"You did brilliantly today, which is extremely rare for someone with no experience. If we had discovered you earlier, and if you were a few inches taller, you'd have been runway material," he muses.

"I'm glad you're happy with the results," I say, though my thoughts are elsewhere—mostly on how the extra money could bring me closer to Harry.

"So, what's the verdict?" I ask, eager to wrap this up.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he moves from behind his desk and stands in front of me.

"Stand up," he instructs, his tone suddenly more commanding.

I hesitate but rise to my feet, watching him closely.

"Hair—perfect. Rich, shiny," he murmurs, brushing his fingers through my curls. I instinctively step back.

"Face—porcelain, flawless," he continues, his fingers trailing along my jaw, stopping on my chin as if studying a piece of art.

I tense. He notices.

"Legs..." His eyes flick downward. "A few inches short for catwalk, I'm afraid."

He removes his hand, and a relieved breath escapes me.

Then his eyes sweep over me again, this time with something far less professional.

"Breasts and ass? Ten out of ten," he states casually.

I flinch at his bluntness but hold my tongue.

"So? The verdict?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. My knees feel unsteady.

Without warning, his hand grabs my breast and squeezes.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" I yank back, slapping his hand away.

"Darling, I'm only testing the merchandise," he smirks.

My stomach churns. "What the fuck are you talking about?" My rage boils over.

"I need to know how you feel, so I can use your body accordingly," he says, as if this is business as usual.

"Are you—are you shitting me right now?" My eyes dart toward the door, already calculating an escape route. "Is this a fucking joke?"

"Language, dear. This is a house of elegance and sophistication," he sighs, as if I'm the problem here. "We can't have our models talking like sailors."

"I am not your model," I spit.

"But you will be... if you play your cards right," he winks.

Disgust floods me. "Listen, Mr. Ferguson, if you're suggesting what I think you are, then you're wasting your damn time. I am not that desperate, and if this is how you close deals, then—"

"Then what?" he interrupts, raising an eyebrow, taunting me.

"Then you can fuck off." I turn to grab my bag, but before I can move, his hand grips my ass.

"You fucking asshole!" I shove him back hard.

"Is this how you get off?" My voice shakes with fury. "Preying on young, ambitious girls? I bet your dick is as small as a toothpick, you disgusting pervert."

"Ella, we could make a lot of money together," he says, grabbing my wrist.

I yank free, my skin crawling.

"You have a wife, don't you?" I ask. "And kids?"

The way his face pales tells me everything I need to know.

"Put that photo frame back on your desk," I sneer. "And think about how you acted today when you tuck them in tonight."

"Ella—"

"Stay the fuck away from me." I point a warning finger at him.

"Yeah, because you're so pure?" he scoffs. "Working in a bar like a little saint? Please. I bet you'd do great in condom ads."

I smile coldly. "Nah. I'm too short for advertising, remember?"

Without another word, I grab my bag and storm out, my so-called modelling career over before it even started.

Fucking prick.

By the time I reach the parking lot, I barely remember how I got there. My hands are shaking as I dig into my bag for my phone.

Just as I find it, the screen lights up.

Harry.

I exhale, trying to pull myself together. I need to tell him what happened.

"Harry..." My voice is unsteady.

"Babyyyyyyyy!!!" His excitement bursts through the line.

I blink. "Yeah?"

"I've got a surprise for you!"

His enthusiasm makes my stomach twist.

"A... surprise?" My voice is small.

"Yeah!"

"What is it?"

"I'm coming home, baby!"

My breath catches. "Oh my God. Harry, are you—are you traveling back and forth?"

"Won't that be inconvenient? Did Alessandro approve this? You negotiated that?"

"No, baby, you don't understand," he laughs. "I'm coming home for good."

I freeze.

"What?"

"Yeah, baby. I am. I changed houses."

"What?" My brain is scrambling.

"I signed with Burberry," he announces.

And for the second time tonight, I freeze.