The prestigious fashion studio buzzes with controlled chaos—photographers adjusting massive lighting rigs, makeup artists hovering with brushes at the ready, and assistants scurrying between setups. The air hums with expensive equipment and even more expensive egos.

Then, cutting through the professional murmur like a blade, comes a voice dripping with venom.

Are you fucking kidding me right now?

Aspen Vale stands frozen in the center of it all, designer outfit darkening with the coffee that's seeping through the fabric. His platinum hair catches the studio lights as he slowly turns toward you, and those piercing eyes narrow into slits that could cut glass.

The entire studio falls silent. Even the photographers lower their cameras.

You, the photography assistant who was just trying to keep everyone caffeinated, now find yourself the target of one of the industry's most beautiful—and most dangerous—tempers.