Naya stepped into DanCo Collection Agency, the sharp tap of her heels echoing against the polished concrete floor. The space was exactly as she'd imagined—sleek, pulsing with controlled chaos, and alive with creative energy. High ceilings stretched overhead, beams exposed like the ribs of some industrial beast, while the walls were plastered with mood boards and campaign photographs—snapshots of fashion's fiercest edges.
Black-and-white portraits of models with razor-sharp cheekbones lined the corridors, watching like silent sentinels.
The agency's name—DanCo—was etched in bold chrome on the reception desk. Beneath it, a tagline caught her eye:
Where Vision Becomes Vogue.
She let out a low whistle. "Okay... this is serious."
A glass door creaked open somewhere ahead—and the room erupted into motion.
Hair stylists dashed between stations. Interns flew past with clipboards and coffees. Makeup artists wielded brushes like weapons. A shout rang out about a model bailing last-minute and something about lighting changes.
It was a jarring mix of adrenaline and barely-contained panic.
Naya's pulse quickened. She felt like a small fish tossed into a shark tank.
Then—
A man stormed into view, wrapped in black, headset glued to his head, stress radiating off him in waves. His voice cracked through the air like a whip.
"Where the hell is everyone? I need bodies, not excuses!"
Miguel.
She'd heard of him—DanCo's notorious fixer. The man who could either pull off a shoot at the last second or kill it before it even began.
His eyes scanned the room, sharp and hawk-like, then locked onto her.
"You! Are you with the agency?"
"I—uh—actually just started—"
"Perfect. You've got a face. Come."
"But I'm not—"
"No time, sweetheart. Let's go!"
Before she could protest, Miguel barked over his shoulder,
"Put her in chair three. Fast. She's now our Plan A."
Naya blinked, half-turned toward the reception in disbelief.
What… just happened?
A stylist smirked, already tossing a cape over her shoulders.
"Congratulations. You just became the face of the DanCo emergency shoot."
She barely had time to process it before she was swept into the chair, brushes and powders arriving like clockwork.
Cole stepped into the studio, still nursing the last sips of lukewarm coffee. The bitter aftertaste matched the tension hanging in the air.
Lights blazed. Cameras loomed. The crew moved with the precision of a machine—but something felt off. The usual buzz was muted, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Then he saw her.
Draped in a sleek cape, hair half-pinned, skin glowing under the artist's soft brush strokes. Her eyes were wide—confused, yes, but also calm. Vulnerable and fierce, all at once.
She looked like she belonged here.
And yet—she didn't.
Cole's breath hitched. Memory surged like heat—sharp, impossible to ignore.
"What the hell…" he murmured.
Miguel spotted him, headset askew.
"Cole! Finally. Tell your models to answer their damn phones. I had to pull a walk-in."
Cole's eyes never left her.
"That's not a walk-in."
Miguel blinked. "Wait—you know her?"
Cole stepped closer, slowly.
"Yeah… I know her."
Naya looked up, catching sight of him. Her lips parted—confusion giving way to recognition, and then something else.
Warmth. Memory. Something deeper.
She wasn't sure whether to wave, say hi, or run.
Miguel, of course, lit up at the tension.
"Perfect. Chemistry! Use it. You two are shooting together in twenty. Get wardrobe moving!"
Backstage, the chaos dimmed to a low hum.
Naya stood in front of a full-length mirror, draped in a sleek black gown that hugged her curves. She looked like someone else—someone bold. Powerful.
But inside, she still felt off-balance. Like she'd walked into someone else's dream… and accidentally gotten cast as the lead.
Then—he appeared.
Cole stood at the edge of the room, watching her. His eyes steady, unreadable. Surprise in them. Curiosity. Something more.
Naya smoothed a hand over her hip, heart thudding so loud she was sure he could hear it.
He stepped closer, voice low.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here."
She met his gaze, lifting her chin.
"I could say the same."
"Model didn't show. Miguel picked chaos."
"I gathered."
A breath passed between them—silent, charged.
"You okay?" he asked.
She gave a small shrug, trying to hide the tangle of nerves inside her.
"I think I just got drafted into a shoot with a stranger."
He hesitated—then reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His touch was gentle. Deliberate. Warm.
His hand lingered.
"You look beautiful," he said softly.
Her breath hitched.
"Thank you."
Time seemed to slow.
The studio's noise faded. Only the space between them remained—tight, electric, thick with everything left unsaid.
His eyes searched hers, as if trying to read everything she
hadn't spoken yet.
And for a second, she let him.
Then—
"Cole! We're ready!" someone called.
He stepped back, smile flickering. Something unreadable in it.
"See you on the set."