Ivy Sloane

82

You’ve been using Model Mayhem for years—trade shoots, mostly. Trade time for images. It’s a decent way to build your portfolio, if you don’t mind the flakes and the creeps giving everyone else a bad name. You find her profile around midnight—no modeling credits, no agency links, just three moody selfies and a one-line bio: “Trying something new.” Ivy Sloane is striking in that raw, in-between way. You message her, keeping it short. Friendly. Professional. You’ve learned to keep the tone neutral—too warm, and it reads like flirting. Too cold, and they assume you’re a scammer. Four days later, she replies. “Sorry. Had a bunch of weirdos in my inbox. Yours seemed legit. I’m down for a test.” You send her your site, a Dropbox of recent tradeshoot proofs, and a photo release form. She agrees to Sunday afternoon. You clean up the garage—unroll the paper backdrop, check the strobes, lay out a water bottle next to the stool like it’s a hotel welcome gift. She shows up on time, hair softly curled, makeup just enough to catch the light. Her outfit’s simple: an off-shoulder gray top, black jeans, boots. She looks better than her profile—balanced, composed “Nice space,” Ivy says, eyeing the seamless backdrop like it’s a stranger. “Thanks. It’s nothing fancy, but it works.” You start with headshot photos. Let her get used to the setup. You direct gently, gesturing with your hands, stepping in only to adjust her elbow or angle her face toward the softbox. Ten minutes in, she exhales, long and slow. “You shoot a lot of new people?” she asks. You nod. “Most of my portfolio are trade shoots. Gets a chance to stay fresh and try new concepts. It’s a win-win.” Ivy smiles, for the first time. Not for the camera—just at the fact that you said it like that. You then proceed with the actual shoot for 40 minutes. By the end, she’s laughing at her own awkward poses, correcting herself before you can, and making small jokes.

Brynn Foster

20

You came for a shot at something bigger. Not fame exactly—just a beginning. A catalog gig. A callback. Proof you weren’t chasing a pipe dream. So you brought Brynn—your best friend since middle school. The kind of friend who knows when you need distraction, when to share fries in silence. She lounged on the cracked vinyl couch, one headphone in, humming to something jangly and fast. When you stepped toward the backdrop, she gave you a thumbs-up. But the shoot didn’t land. Three poses. No direction. A few quick flashes. The casting director barely looked up. You could feel the silence settle like dust—thick and knowing. You stepped off the mark, already rehearsing how you’d laugh it off. “Wait. Her.” You turned to follow his gaze. He meant Brynn. She blinked. “What?” “You model?” She laughed—soft, awkward. “No. I’m just the ride.” “She’s not here for this,” you said, sharper than intended. But he’d already moved closer, eyeing her like he’d stumbled onto something rare. “You’ve got the face. Bit of Claudia, bit of Gwen. Let’s get her in something.” Brynn stiffened, eyes darting toward you. She shifted her weight, half a step back, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. You almost said no. But what came out was, “It’s okay. You should do it.” Brynn hesitated. Then she followed the assistant behind the curtain. When she stepped out, she looked like someone else. Still Brynn—but styled. The borrowed blouse clung in the heat, the pleated skirt flirty and unfamiliar. Her legs looked impossibly long in the heels. She tugged at the hem, uncertain. “I feel like a mall mannequin,” she whispered. Then the camera flashed. She flinched. Then straightened. On the third shot, her eyes locked with the lens. The photographer leaned in, suddenly alert. More direction. Quicker pace. The casting director crossed his arms and nodded, focused. Somewhere behind you, the assistant whispered, “Wow.”

Riot Lux

7

You’re not in the business of babysitting rockstars. You prefer clear targets, clean exits. But a gig’s a gig—and Riot Lux is paying well, courtesy of a manager who sounds like she’s five seconds from a breakdown. “She attracts attention,” she told you. “Some of it bad. Just get her to and from the shoots in one piece. Stay out of her way otherwise.” You expected a diva. What you got was a storm in combat boots. She sizes you up the second you step into the warehouse: eyes kohl-smeared, lips curled into a smirk. “You the new shadow?” she asks. “You look like you bench press boyfriends.” You don’t answer. You’re here to observe, to protect—not to get pulled into her game. The shoot begins. She climbs scaffolding in stilettos, poses on jagged rebar, flips off the camera with a cigarette clenched in her teeth. Every shot looks like a magazine cover and a crime scene. You stay out of frame, scanning the edges—watching for the twitchy fan with the homemade patches who keeps circling the set. You clock him, reposition. She notices. Later, between outfit changes, she leans close. “You don’t blink much, huh?” “No reason to.” “Good. My last guard got distracted by my legs. Don’t be that guy.” You’re not. But over the next few gigs, you learn her rhythms. You start predicting when she’ll bolt from set mid-shoot, when she’ll throw a chair just to get a better angle. You stop flinching when she yells. She starts walking closer to you when the crowd gets loud. One night, after a shoot on a rooftop, she sits near you, sweating and quiet for once. “Ever think about what it costs?” she asks. You glance at her. “What?” “Being seen like this. So loud no one listens.” You don’t answer. She doesn’t expect you to. But the next time someone crosses the line, you’re already moving. And she doesn’t ask why.

Liana Bublé ♀

8

The rented studio still smelled faintly of coffee and fresh paint. You’d arrived early to prep lighting, test the backdrop, and triple-check the shot list for the catalog shoot. Nothing revolutionary—soft, romantic dresses for spring. You expected a routine day. Then she walked in. Liana Bublé. No relation, the agency note said, though the name lingered in your head. She was twenty minutes early, balancing a long canvas garment bag in one hand and a takeaway cup in the other. Her gaze swept the space, not with curiosity, but intent. Measured. “You must be the photographer,” she said, already walking toward the dressing area. You nodded. “And you’re Liana.” Her handshake was warm, assured. She smelled faintly of jasmine and fabric starch. She took her seat in the makeup chair without fuss, but as the artist reached for a contour palette, Liana caught your eye in the mirror. “Do you mind if we keep the look pretty natural?” she asked, gently. “Something soft and a little dewy—it’ll play better with the fabric textures, especially on those chiffon pieces.” You hesitated. It was a small request, but you’d been handed a style board for a reason. Still, you nodded. “Keep it minimal. Romantic, not editorial.” She smiled. “Exactly.” The first dress was a lavender midi—silky, high-necked, stiff with studio starch. Liana stepped into the frame, turned once toward the light, and started to move. Not pose. Move—fluidly, like the dress whispered directions in her ear. “She’s a little too perfect,” she murmured between clicks. “What if she looked like she just stepped in from a garden? A little breeze, a little sun?” You adjusted your lens. Looked through it again. She wasn’t wrong. And for the first time that morning, the shoot stopped feeling like a checklist—and started feeling like something worth remembering.

Kelly Sutton

3

You were just there for the fries. Kelly had picked the café—chalkboard menus, sun-faded umbrellas, a playlist that sounded like a mixtape made for someone cooler than you. She looked right at home: white blouse crisp despite the heat, green skirt with a slit brushing her knees as she crossed one leg over the other. A breeze lifted the ends of her shoulder-length hair, catching the light. She’d just finished telling you about an open call that morning. Not a total bust, she said, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. You listened, nodded, offered your usual dumb jokes. She smirked, nudged your foot under the table. Then he showed up. Loafers, no socks. Tan blazer sleeves rolled to the elbow. Sunglasses perched in sun-lightened hair like he hadn’t taken them off since Cannes. He looked like someone who’d been airbrushed into existence. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, sliding a card between his fingers. “Are you signed?” Kelly perked up immediately. “Yeah—two small agencies right now, I’ve been doing some…” “Not you,” he said, already shifting his eyes to you. You looked behind, thinking maybe someone else had wandered into frame. No one. “Me?” you respond. “Yeah. You’ve got presence,” he said, smiling. “It’s in the way you sit. That stillness? People try to fake it. You just have it.” Kelly’s expression didn’t change, not exactly—but the way she sat straighter, how she stopped tapping her straw against the rim of her glass, made something twist in your stomach. You raised your hands a little. “I’m not… I mean, I don’t do that.” “You don’t have to,” he said, flashing the card. “Wilhelmina knows how to build people from the ground up.” He set the card on the table, right by your drink, like it had already been decided. Kelly’s mouth pressed into a line. Not angry. Not quite sad. Just… something unreadable. Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve.