Page 25 of Fateful Exposure

Even with the tension of Ashton's cold shoulder, I got to work, fitting the design on the model. My pattern maker carefully constructed this dress after careful deliberations with the sketch. My interns surrounded me as I worked, asking questions, and offering insights. I acknowledged them all, feeling the nostalgic thrill that always consumed me whenever I gave life to colors and patterns. I loved everything about what I did, and I always would.

My pattern maker created the sample with muslin material to enable me to capture the spirit of the final garment through the model's shape, draping, and fabric choice. I made some mental notes to send back to her about the kind of stitching I wanted on the front of the dress. Everything had to be perfect.

Once I had assembled the prototype on the model, it was time to shoot. I wanted to capture every moment of this journey, from the sketches to the final product. Documentation was a game changer, and not many designers knew that. My meticulousness was one of the things that distinguished me from all others.

Ashton unpacked his camera, fixed the backdrop, and cross-checked the artificial lighting. I stood behind him as he worked, my eyes trained on his suave movements. Honestly, if he wasn't such a dick, I would probably have had a thing for him. His shoulders were broad and hard, and they framed his plain white T-shirt perfectly, tucked into loose black slacks. I couldn't resist letting my gaze linger on his taut backside or thinking about how amazing they'd felt in my hands that night when I'd gripped them as he pummeled my vagina into a delicious tenderness.

But as it turned out, he was a dick, and I didn't have a thing for dicks.

The last one hadn't turned out so well.

I moved forward to get to the model standing in front of the backdrop while Ashton stepped away from the softbox modifier. We collided, and I stumbled, his arm abruptly snaking around my waist to steady my feet. I held my breath, his face dangerously close to mine. Those brown orbs stared down at me with an intensity that made my heart race. I didn't know how long we stayed in that position, staring at each other, but a cough from somewhere in the room made me jump away from him.

I cleared my throat. "I…uh…"

Ashton moved to the side so I could pass. I did, but not before catching the dark shadow that flashed through his gaze.

Beneath the surface, a tension simmered, a palpable undercurrent that lingered between us like an unspoken truth. Every glance exchange, every brush of skin against skin, fueled a fire that had no business burning as fiercely as it did, igniting a spark that refused to be extinguished.

My brain hated him, but my traitorous body responded to him like it hadn't been touched by a man before.

It didn't take us long to begin the arguments. We argued over the littlest things, such as lighting angles and prop placement. Everydecision became a battleground, and every suggestion met with scorn and derision.

"Are you sure about that pose, Selma?" Ashton's voice cut through the silence, laced with a hint of challenge as he adjusted the camera lens.

I narrowed my eyes, feeling irritated. "Of course I'm sure. I didn't get to where I am by second-guessing myself."

He raised an eyebrow, an annoying smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, forgive me for wanting to ensure your vision is properly captured."

"Stop trying to be a know-it-all and do your fucking job."

He smacked his lips. "You know what they say. Takes one to know one."

Maria snorted next to me, earning a glare from me. She abruptly straightened her face.

As the day wore on, and another prototype was assembled, the strain between us became increasingly apparent. It cast a tense shadow over the studio's atmosphere. My interns took to whispering amongst themselves, and once or twice, I caught an exchange of looks between them as they observed the tumultuous dynamics between Ashton and me.

I wasn't new to gossip, having been the top recipient of the media's backlash three years ago. Still, I would not tolerate anysort of idle chit-chat in my company. I fixed them a death glare, and they quieted, all looking demure.

"You're both being childish, you know," Maria whispered as Ashton's camera clicks filled the silence.

I huffed, keeping my gaze on the model as she switched poses. "He's the childish one. Mocking me in front of my interns? How rude."

"You asked him to do his job, and that's exactly what he's doing. Ease up a little. You're being too hard on him."

I rolled my eyes. Of course, she would be on his side. Hadn't they been awfully snug a few hours ago?

Unlike what Maria said, I wasn't being hard on Ashton. At least, not particularly. I was Selma Volkov, and my work was nothing if not perfect. Ashton fucking McCall would not be the one to change that.

He instructed the model to turn her legs at a certain angle. After many trials, and she still wasn't getting it, he edged closer to help her. The second his hand connected with the bare skin of her flesh, anger gripped me. And why the fuck was the model smiling like he'd just cracked a joke?

He didn't have to touch her, did he? A part of me, the part that sounded like reason, knew this was a normal occurrence. Still, another part—and by God, I didn't understand it—was irritated.

Phew. It definitely has to be my hormones.There was no other plausible explanation. Pregnancy was a real bitch.

My feet moved of their own accord to where the model stood, causing Ashton to step back. Instead of the pose Ashton had been trying to create, I shifted her body to another position so that her body was facing the left with her hand on her right hip and her head was facing the right.

"There," I said. "That's better."

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