Page 48 of Obsessed Heir

Did she really think I would approve of having a woman wearing this? Much less having that woman be Abigail.

Holly blows out an annoyed breath. “Fine. I can get someone else to do it,” she snaps.

I grunt. The thought of some random guy putting his hands on Abigail makes me want to rip somebody’s head off.

“But let’s face it. You’re the epitome of the powerful billionaire, businessman,” Holly continues, her hand waving to indicate me. “Anyone else would probably look like a caveman next—” She pauses, clearly caught on an idea. “Oh, a loincloth…” She narrows her eyes. “I bet Rhys would make a perfect caveman.”

“What the?—”

“This is for the boudoir photos of the Maiden.” She sets her hand on top of the bag. “If you don’t like the direction I’m going, we trash the idea. We can keep her in the other outfit being tailored for her to wear around the ship.”

“Other outfit?” She’s already done a lot, considering she got the idea yesterday.

“Come, take a peek.” She waves for me to follow. “She’s already gone through three pieces. You’re going to love the direction I’m taking this, I promise.”

With a sigh of resignation, I brace myself for whatever Holly thought up. My mind is already racing ahead, wondering what she has Abigail wearing.

Chapter Eighteen

Abigail

I’ve never felt so utterly inadequate in my life.

“No, don’t smile,” Steven, the photographer, calls out his next command.

I relax my lips, trying to mimic that bored sultry expression models display as they strut down the runway. How they’re able to do this day in and day out is beyond me.

Click, click, click.

I’ve never worked with a professional photographer before, so I didn’t know Steven would be so relentless and critical. His attitude and rapid-fire demands make me feel self-conscious and insecure. The pressure to live up to his image of perfection has me on edge.

“Tease your hair,” he instructs.

I widen my fingers, running them under the mass of curls, trying to add volume.

Click.

“No. On the sideawayfrom the camera.”

I lean away from the overstuffed chaise lounge and try to make it happen.

Click, click, click.

I’m wondering if this is really worth it. The constant criticism, the demands to be something I’m not—it’s wearing me down. I imagine having to do this job to make a living would take a serious toll on my self-esteem. I’d definitely need a counselor on standby.

“Straighten your leg,” Steven says next.

I pull my calf forward, locking my knee.

Click.

Ugh. After so many failed attempts, I recognize that a single click means he’s not happy with the results. I should have just politely declined the request.

“This would be so much easier,” the photographer’s nasally voice pipes up again, “with a professional model.”

Once again, I turn to Holly for guidance. I almost wish she’d give up, but from everything I’ve seen, I’m not sure that’s part of her character. Instead, she’s standing there with a patient smile on her face.

“We’re not using a professional model for this shoot, Steven,” she says for the umpteenth time. “I want an actual woman with a real body doing this shoot.”

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