Jilted By Prince, Claimed By King

The lobby of the Ski Lodge was transformed into a makeshift studio. Lights, reflectors, and assistants buzzed around. The photographer, a renowned Frenchman named Luc, was tapping his foot impatiently.

"The light, it is dying!" Luc exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

Edris sat on a leather sofa, flipping through a magazine. She looked the picture of calm, though inside, her adrenaline was still spiking.

The doors opened. Clement hurried in, looking flushed. Bailee trailed behind him, still playing the role of the timid, supportive sister.

"Sorry, Luc," Clement said, breathless. "The gondola... technical difficulties."

"It was my fault," Bailee chimed in, her voice trembling. "I wanted to see the view one last time. I didn't know it would take so long."

Luc waved his hand. "No matter. Let us begin. Edris, darling, to the fireplace, please."

Edris didn't move. She closed the magazine slowly and placed it on the table.

She looked at Clement. He had changed his jacket, but he hadn't checked the collar of his turtleneck. There, stark against the cream wool, was a faint, orange smudge.

Foundation.

Bailee's shade.

"No," Edris said.

The room went silent. The assistants stopped adjusting the lights.

Clement blinked. "What?"

Edris stood up. "I said no. We aren't shooting today."

"Edris, don't be ridiculous," Clement hissed, stepping closer. "This is Vogue. You don't cancel on Vogue."

"I don't work with amateurs," Edris said, her voice carrying clearly through the quiet lobby. "And I certainly don't pose with men who can't even dress themselves properly."

She pointed a manicured finger at his collar.

Clement looked down. His eyes widened. He slapped his hand over the smudge, his face turning a mottled red.

Bailee gasped. "Edris! How can you be so mean? It's probably just... dirt."

"Dirt doesn't come in 'Porcelain Ivory', Bailee," Edris said coldly.

She turned to the photographer. "Luc, I apologize for wasting your time. Send the bill to the Mcclure estate. But looking at the..." she gestured vaguely at Clement, "current state of the subject, I think we can agree the aesthetic would be compromised."

Luc, who lived for drama almost as much as he lived for lighting, looked from Clement's panicked face to Edris's icy composure. He smirked.

"But of course, Mademoiselle. Perfection or nothing."

Edris nodded and turned on her heel.

"Edris!" Clement grabbed her arm. His grip was hard, desperate. "You are making a scene."

Edris looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. Her expression was one of pure disgust.

"Let go," she said softly.

The authority in her voice startled him. He dropped her arm.

"If you ever touch me like that again," she whispered, leaning in so only he could hear, "I will tell the world exactly where that makeup came from. And I have the photos to prove it."

She walked away, the click of her heels sounding like gunshots in the silent lobby.