Cait woke with the hard slash of morning sun slicing across her eyes. Despite a heavy head—weighed down more from fatigue than anything else, she levered up with a yawn and stretched. Last night had been wild and her body ached in the most delicious ways that said she'd had a killer night with an awesome dance floor.

Fueled by three hours of sleep and a double espresso, she showered and dressed for an exciting Day One of shooting. This was going to set the tone for the entire project. And if they didn't execute flawlessly then everything could be wiped off the table as fast as it had been laid out. Fashion was fickle and executives were mercurial beasts guarding the gates.

Today had to be perfection.

So of course life as she knew it was about to go straight to Hell.

Arriving on set at the gorgeous Paris Opera House, she was swept up in the grandeur. It was perfect backdrop, where the glory of the old would join with the elegance of the new. But she had only the barest moment to soak in the breathtaking splendor when the sound of raised voices sliced through her moment of awe and joy. Climbing the iconic staircase, Evan, Karl Yoren, the photographer and Tarnveer Pal, Iona's manager came into full view. The three of them almost nose to nose in varying stages of upset.

"—fault," Evan said, besieged by a snarling manager, after Tarnveer pressed his hands to his chest and shoved. "Maybe you should keep better track of your client."

"What's going on?" Cait spoke up, breaking apart the furious tableau. All eyes whipped to her and with a roar of frustration, Iona's manager bounded for her with short legs and swinging arms.

"You!" Tarnveer snapped. His finger jabbing the air inches from Cait's stunned face. "I'm holding you personally accountable for this fiasco."

"Tarnveer, please," Evan interjected, holding back the irate little man who bounced and bobbed like a yapping Pekingese terrier on a pogo stick.

"I have better things to do than waste my time waiting," Karl lamented, arms crossed and apathy giving way to resigned boredom.

"Yoren, please," Evan said, raising his hands. "See to your equipment while I sort this out."

"What is going on?" Cait cast her gaze around them, to the scattering of crew—lights were staged, props staged and, hair and makeup nearby with racks of wardrobe, but everything was at a grinding halt.

Lips pressed tight together, Evan released a heavy breath. "I have no choice but to cancel the shoot."

Cait's stomach bottomed out, ringing around her knees like a hula-hoop. "What do you mean cancel? Why?"

"Because Iona refuses to come to set," Tarnveer added with a toss of his hands, almost crazed at this point. Cheeks splotched with barely leashed rage, he raised his phone and thrust so close to her face she had to rear back a step to make sense of what she was looking at: a picture from last night, showing her and Iona dancing near the DJ booth, arms raised and faces contorted with ecstasy.

"She's a hot f*cking mess, thanks to you. Hung over and jittery from the excess of cocaine—which she claims you gave her by the way."

"I did no such thing!" Cait defended, her voice rising an octave.

Wedging himself between her and Iona's frothing manager who reluctantly backed off to make a streaming of frantic call to god knows who, Evan took hold of her shoulders, pinned her with furious eyes. "Did you or did you not sneak Iona out to a club last night?"

"Yes, we went to a club, but there was no sneaking, Evan. She's a person not a relic from a museum."

Evan lifted his hand, took a calming breath and employed every last ounce of patience he had to keep his voice calm and composed. "Tell me what happened. Exactly, as it happened."

"Iona saw me in the lobby as I was leaving the Shangri-La and said she wanted to go out. So I took her out." Cait laid it all out. She'd taken Iona to the best known spot in all of Paris. To the left of the River Seine was Wonderlust, a gigantic nightclub tucked inside the Cité de la Mode et du Design, an acid green contemporary glass building, with its slick revellers and excellent acoustics. Dedicated to fashion and the arts in Paris, the patrons came as much to be seen as they did to experience the luscious high of musical artistry of the very best of international underground house.

A veritable haven for dance music.

Like all clubs in Paris, the bouncers stood as unmoving gatekeepers and would have otherwise been impossible to get into without securing a spot on the list weeks in advance. But with one text to a certain promoter Cait had developed contacts with after Shay's event last October, both she and Iona had bypassed the line without restoring to pushing Iona's stardom into everyone's faces.

There, among the strobbing lights and throbbing base, Cait had shed her anger and frustration on the dance floor. Losing herself in that glorious pulse of energy. Where fashion had a claim on her heart, dancing had a claim on her soul and whenever and as often as she could, Cait would spend night after night in the sweaty, rhythmic beat.

Iona, on the other hand, partying meant a lot of alcohol and snorting lines of cocaine like a panty-sniffer who couldn't get enough. Still rolling high on the M, Cait had drawn the line there, despite Iona's prodding and insistence she 'have a little fun' as she'd tried to shove her tongue in Cait's mouth.

Anyone else in her shoes would have killed to say yes, but messing around with someone connected to business was a mistake Cait didn't plan to make ever again. And turned down both the hard drugs and a sloppy offer of a one-night stand, which hadn't gone over well with Iona at all.

And ultimately Cait decided dealing with a sulking, self-absorbed model wasn't the way she wanted to spend the rest of her night. Iona had pitched a tantrum all the way back to her hotel where Cait had dropped her off before making it home herself and crawling into bed with Eshe somewhere in the vicinity of four AM.

"You did all of that, knowing full well we had an early morning shoot?" Evan's head shook with dazed disbelief. "Are you insane?"

"Evan...I'm sorry, I didn't think it would get so out of hand. By the time we got there she was already stoned and drunk—she wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't stop, so I brought her back. I made sure she got to the hotel and left. Thought no more of it."

She'd thought in the morning Iona would come around to sense and act with a shred of professionalism, but it seemed she'd planned to exact revenge in the only way she could—by destroying Cait's hopes and dreams. As a model high in demand, Iona could recover from a bad day on set, but as for herself?—she was supremely f*cked.

"I knew you were angry last night but I didn't think you were so...was this all about getting back at me?" he whispered, rage and hurt tightening his shoulders.

"No! I mean...yes, last night I was angry, but I wouldn't do anything to sabotage this shoot, Evan. This is my dream. My life. My future. I would never—"

"Well, thanks to your extraordinary lack of common-sense, my neck is going to be in a noose with the Board of Directors when they hear about this. If Tarnveer hasn't already heaved your body under the bus to protect his client, all the pictures of you both are splashed across all of Iona's social media accounts will— I can't protect you from the fallout, Cait."

Cait licked dry lips. "I can fix this."

"I don't see how. We've invested three hundred thousand euros in today's shoot alone, and now we have no model."

"We do."

Disgusted, Evan narrowed his eyes. "Did I not speak slowly enough for you?"

"Give me twenty minutes, Evan. Twenty."

#

Eshe woke early to enjoy a leisurely breakfast a quaint local café—kind of a requisite for anyone while in Paris.

Parisians on their way to work wore more perfume and aftershave than Londoners, and as the sun climbed higher in the sky, the air thickened with the trickling sweat of a hot morning, mingled with smoke from cigarettes dangled gracefully from manicured fingers.

While sipping her coffee and nibbling a pain au chocolat, a message chimed on her phone.

Cait: Paris Opera House

Cait: Get your gorgeous ass here 

Cait: I need u!!!!!

With not much else to go on, Eshe didn't have a clue as to what to expect or what she was walking into, but when she arrived at the Paris Opera House barely fifteen minutes later, it was to find Cait—sheet white and pacing like a woman on death-row. Wide eyes, rose to Eshe and she jerked to a stop.

"Oh f*ck yes, you're here and you're gorgeous."

"Are you okay?"

Cait shook her head, cap of brightly dyed hair in varying shades of blue, purple and green trembled like anxious peacock feathers. "I f*cked up, Esh. I f*cked up so bad and now I need you to bail me out."

"Sure. Anything."

"I really hope you mean that. Come on." Tugging her hand, Cait led Eshe inside the opulence of the Opera House, a marvel of columns, domed ceiling, stained glass and the priceless glamour of history, marred only by the clamour of voices as they wove up the winding center staircase to a brightly lit set.

She'd only so much as caught her breath when she was thrust in front of an attractive middle-aged man, his dark skin smooth and unblemished with the kind of focused gaze that left her tongue tied.

"This is my boss," Cait said by way of introduction. "Evan Holloway, this is my friend I told you about."

Thrust under his nose like a prize pony in a show, expected to pass ruthless examination for a purpose that escaped and eluded her, Eshe held her breath.

Evan didn't have a chance to respond as a harsh faced ginger loped over, chest puffed and nostril's flared and a young man at his side. "What is this? What is going on?"

"Karl Yoren," Cait said in a trembling voice. "This is Eshe Diallo. Our replacement model."

"Hiya..."

"I've never heard of—?"

"She's new," Cait interrupted, wringing her hands. "Very new. She'll be something fresh and unexpected. A bold move for the campaign."

Understanding lit his shrewd gaze and Karl waved a hand at Eshe, aghast. "No. No, I don't think so. I will not stake my name—my reputation—on an unknown."

Cait's mouth unhinged with a frantic sputter. "Look at this face, her skin, those legs! We wouldn't even have to airbrush."

Karl turned up his hooked nose in a long face. "No. I'm done and want no part of this." He stalked off, muttering and cursing in a stream of furious Swedish.

"Oh for the love of—!"

"I can do it," the young man she hadn't given much notice to stepped up before Evan could complete his roaring curse.

"And who the bloody hell are you?" Evan snapped.

"Yoren's assistant. Niels Van Der Meer."

"Are you experienced?" Cait pounced, hand at her throat as if she could already feel the rope tightening there.

He nodded confidently. "Yes."

"But what about the equipment!" Evan seethed, tossing a hand towards the set where Karl was already snapping and ordering his team of assistants to pack up cameras, lenses, filters and diffusers. "He's taking everything."

"Not everything," Niels said, calm and void of any of the panic that clearly had Evan and Cait in a chokehold. "I always bring along my own gear. It's not as high end but it'll do what I need it to do."

Evan's eyes retuned to Cait. Unconvinced. "I don't know..."

"It's this or both our asses. Your call."

Evan turned with a loud curse, his voice reverberating off the gilded walls and polished marble. "Fine. What do we have to lose at this point? Not a damn thing." Swiping a hand over his face, he nodded at some internal thought before adding, "Get her ready. I'll do damage control with Yoren and Tarnveer in the meantime. By some miracle maybe we can salvage this mess."

"Thank you," Cait sighed as he stalked off, head low and shoulders tense.

"Can you explain what is going on, please?" Eshe whispered as she was nudged into a makeup chair behind a makeshift station of a mirrors, cosmetics and hair products.

Listened carefully as Cait summed it all up as best she could while a team swarmed around her.

"So basically," she summarized, "I need you to kill it in front of that camera."

"Oh, is that all?" Eshe batted sarcastic lashes. "Have you lost your bleeding senses?"

"C'mon this should be easy after all those acting classes, oh and that thing you did for the charity show with (university)?"

"That was a runway, Cait. A stage and sixty seconds—sixty sodding seconds! Standing in front of a camera is entirely different." A stage was for a moment; a picture was for a lifetime. A picture could be examined and dissected...appraised. Every flaw studied. Every nuance explored.

"Eshe, please." Cait tossed back her head with a whining groan. "Give them one shot, just one that will save me from the firing squad."

While hands poked and prodded, yanked and tugged, Eshe pinned Cait with narrowed eyes. "You. Owe me. Big."

A pouty blonde combed her fingers through Eshe's blown-out hair while a guy with the fiercest eyebrows scrubbed away the hint of bronzer she'd stroked over her cheeks. Cait directed and guided the team to bring about the vision she had in mind and Eshe tuned out the noise.

Disappearing deep within herself to escape the fear, the nerves and self-doubt. A trick she'd learned during her years of improvisational drama. When they were done, Eshe blinked at the oval mirror held before her face. Dazzled, she stared—awed and a little afraid by what she saw.

Dressed in a loose fitting black suit with pointed shoulders and a slender profile, her hair gathered in a tight knot atop her head, leaving nothing for her to hide behind. Her hair had been tamed, and without it she felt small. Lost.

"Honey," Cait whispered, a little teary with the end result, "you're perfect." And with that final word of encouragement, Eshe was thrust onto the set where Niels waited, camera in hand rather than mounted to the tripod.

As his gaze raked Eshe from head to toe and she tried not to shrink under their intensity. Beneath the glare of hot lights and the eyes of too many people, abject terror twisted around her heart but she kept the mask of confidence firmly in place.

She was used to pretending to be something she was not, she faked confidence every day of her life. This should be child's play.

But ten minutes in her confidence began to waffle. An hour later and Eshe knew she was in trouble as Niels grew apparently frustrated with her ability to 'emote' as he wanted her to. With each click of the shutter, he didn't say a word but she saw the disappointment in his face and the gradual deepening of those lines angered her.

She dug deeper than she'd ever dug before, pushing to her limits and travelling beyond them. She gave him smoldering confidence, waifish naiveté. She went from fierce to fragile and everything in between but nothing could dislodge the skew of his brows.

"What do you want?" Eshe demanded, arms spread. "What are you looking for?"

As the echoes of her outburst rang around them, Niels lowered the camera from his face so she could finally get a good look at him as he approached her, slow and easy. His blue eyes strong, his smile warm and endearing.

"What I want is everything," he said with an unaffected shrug. "I want the real you. The truth."

Eshe released a heavy breath. "I'm giving you all I have."

"No." Lips pursed, he shook his head. "No, you're not. Hit me."

"What?" she scoffed.

"Hit me."

She did as he asked, weak and laughingly—without actual intent of much follow through, so when his hands reached up to press back against her shoulder in a confrontational shove, a spark of anger surged. "Hey! Ease off!"

"Again." Ignoring her he pushed her a second time. "Do it again."

When she struck him this time Eshe put some real intent behind the blow, and each slap connected harder and harder until she was panting, until tears welled and her voice sobbed in a single broken breath.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Evan bellowed as he returned to the set, arms spread and eyes wide.

"She was blocked," Neils answered, cheek flaming and eyes clear. "I'm helping her break through it."

"Christ, this is a circus. I'm running a circus." Groaning, Evan pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubbed. "Enough of the bleeding S&M sh!t, alright? And can we get makeup in here to clean her face? She's a mess."

"No—leave it. Leave her alone." Neils warned the team standing by off with a lift of his hand despite Evan's sputtered disapproval and turned to Eshe. "You're perfect," he whispered, cupping her face, angling her so that the light shimmered in the wet sheen of tears on her skin. "Do you feel it yet?"

Eshe cupped her hand—palm singing, and for reasons she couldn't understand tears burned in her eyes. "What?" Around them she was vaguely aware of Evan's arguing and Cait's pleading, but it all came to her foggy and distance. As if under water as she was sucked into the deep, clear blue of Niels' eyes.

"Powerful. But scared at the same time and you're not sure why?" He stepped back, giving her space and distance. Releasing her slowly. "That's the plight of women every day. That's what I want to see through this lens. That anger you're feeling deep inside right now, that raw feminine power. Your fragility." Lifting the camera, his face slid behind the viewfinder. "Show me."

https://youtu.be/4T4EB3dl9j8

**A/N**

Talk about one hell of a mess Cait has got herself into. Actions have consequences and this is going to be a big one if Eshe can't pull together a small miracle to save the day.