Third Person's POV.
Penelope's living room floor was filled with snacks. Ohio was sprawled across the white sectional, lazily tossing the last few kernels of popcorn into her mouth as the credits rolled.
"Okay, but if the main character had just called the police instead of wandering into the basement, we could have finished this movie like an hour ago," Ohio muttered, stretching until her joints popped. She looked over at Penelope, who was staring blankly at the dark TV screen.
"Penelope? Earth to Pen! You still with me, or has your brain already shut down for the night?"
Penelope blinked, shaking off the fog. "I'm here. Just... thinking about the call time. 5:30 AM is a hate crime, Ohio. I might retire from modeling soon if things go on like this."
"Tell me about it. I've always wondered how you're able to keep up with everything. But hey, you're literally the face of many brands. It's your job to look like you've never had a bad night's sleep in your life," Ohio teased, standing up and gathering the empty bowls. "Go to bed. I'll handle the cleanup. If I see you doing anything except sleeping, I'm confiscating your phone for a week."
"Deal," Penelope said, offering a tired smile.
She retreated to her bedroom, the quiet of the house in the early hours of the morning feeling a little too loud now that the movie chatter had stopped. She kicked off her lounge pants and slipped into a silk nightdress, feeling the weight of the upcoming day pressing down on her. Just sleep, she told herself, reaching for her phone to set the alarm. Focus on nothing except sleeping.
Then, the phone buzzed. She was expecting an email from her assistant regarding her call time but it wasn't. It was a text.
Harlow: You up?
Penelope stared at the screen, her heart doing a little somersault that she absolutely refused to acknowledge. Seriously? she thought, her thumb hovering over the ignore button. It's way past midnight, they have a campaign shoot in less than six hours, and he's hitting her with a 'you up' text like they're in college? But instead of locking her phone, she found herself typing back.
Penelope: It's way past midnight, Harlow. Some of us actually value sleep before a big day. What do you want?
The little gray bubbles appeared immediately. He was waiting for her reply.
Harlow: I'm still at the studio. Just finished checking the equipment. It's too quiet here. To be honest? I'm lonely, Penelope. I wanted to talk.
Penelope let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, leaning back against her pillows. Lonely. Right. She could almost see his smirk through the phone—that "I'm a sensitive artist" routine he probably used on every model he'd ever slept with.
"You've got to be kidding me," she whispered to her empty room. He's a photographer, not a poet. He's probably surrounded by people all day, and now he wants to play the 'lonely guy' card to get under her skin.
Penelope: You're lonely? Call a friend, Harlow. Or one of those models who hangs onto your every word. I'm busy trying to get three hours of sleep so I don't look like a zombie during the shoot.
Harlow: Those models are boring. They say yes to everything, but not you. I miss our...spirited debate from earlier. And I don't want a friend. I want you. Is that so bad?
Penelope bit her lip, her resolve softening just a tiny, dangerous amount. He's so annoying, she thought, even as a flush of heat climbed up her neck. He knows exactly what he's doing. He's making her feel like she's the only person in the city who can keep him company, and it's the oldest trick in the book. Why is she smiling? She shouldn't be smiling.
Penelope: It's not just 'bad,' it's unprofessional. And deceitful. You're trying to rattle me before tomorrow.
Harlow: Is it working? Because you're still texting me back.
He's got her there, she realized with a groan, tossing the phone onto the duvet. She should just stop. She should put the phone on 'Do Not Disturb' and prove she's the boss. But the silence of the room suddenly felt a lot more like his "lonely" studio. She picked the phone back up.
Penelope: Go to sleep, Harlow. If you're lonely, talk to your camera. I'll see you at 6:00 AM. And don't even think about bringing up this conversation on set.
Harlow: No promises. Sleep tight, beautiful. Dream of something better than work.
Penelope turned the phone face-down, her mind racing. He's going to be the death of her, she thought, pulling the covers up to her chin. She was supposed to be fearless and untouchable, someone who doesn't get flustered by a charming photographer with an ego the size of the moon.
But as she lay there in the dark, the memory of his "I want you" text echoed in her head. The shoot wasn't just going to be about her family's diamonds and silk; it was going to be a battle of wills, and after tonight, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to win.
Meanwhile, the Moore Holdings studio echoing void at 2:00 AM. The only source of light was the cold, blue spill from a dual-monitor setup in the editing bay. Harlow Langford sat slumped in a leather swivel chair, his boots kicked up on the edge of the desk, a lukewarm cup of black coffee forgotten nearby.
He had sent the text to Penelope on a whim—a spark of restless energy he couldn't quite extinguish. Now, he watched his phone screen go dark after his final "No promises" reply, a slow, crooked smirk tugging at his lips.
"She's so restless," he muttered to the empty room, his voice raspy from a day of shouting directions. "And she hates that I'm the reason why."
He turned his attention back to the monitors. On the screen was a raw, unedited test shot from the previous day. It wasn't even the final look; it was a candid moment where Penelope had been arguing with a stylist, her head tilted back, her eyes flashing with that signature Moore fire.
Harlow leaned forward, clicking his mouse to zoom in on her eyes. The high-resolution image was so sharp he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her irises.
He should be staying away from anything and everything that concerns Penelope Moore just like she wants, he thought, his brow furrowing. He should've forgotten that night by now. Instead, he found himself tracing the curve of her mouth on the screen. He swiped to the next photo—the one where she was looking directly into the lens, her expression guarded but vulnerable.
"You're going to kill me tomorrow, aren't you?" he whispered to the digital Penelope.
He knew the game he was playing was dangerous. Penelope wasn't just any client; she was the Executive Director of Moore Holdings. An Heiress to one of the most powerful family in the world. She held his contract—and his reputation in this city—in her perfectly manicured hands. If he pushed too hard, she'd really bury him.
But as he looked at the image he'd captured in these test shots, he knew he couldn't go back to living his life like he did before meeting her. It's not humanly possible.
He stood up, stretching his back, the shadows of the studio stretching with him. He had four hours until the hair and makeup team arrived. Four hours to figure out how to look her in the eye without giving away just how much that night had meant to him.
He reached out and tapped the monitor, his finger resting right over her cheek. "See you at dawn, Boss."