Third Person's POV.
The flagship 'Moore Heirlooms' shoot started with awkward energy. The studio was a cathedral of white light, and at its altar stood Penelope, draped in ten million dollars' worth of diamonds and a gown of midnight velvet.
Harlow was different today. He wasn't the grinning charmer from that night or the pensive loner from the midnight editing bay. He was focused, sharp, and entirely focused on Penelope. Every time he adjusted a light or checked a frame, his eyes lingered on her just a second too long.
"Chin up, Penelope. Shoulders back," Harlow directed, his voice echoing in the silent room.
She obeyed, her face a mask of regal indifference, but her fingers were trembling slightly against the hem of her skirt. He knows I didn't sleep after that text, she thought, her gaze locked on the lens. He's watching for the crack.
"Wait," Harlow said, suddenly stepping away from the tripod. He walked onto the set, the crew holding their breath as he entered her space. He didn't adjust the jewelry this time. He stopped inches from her, his voice dropping to a low, intimate volume that the boom mics couldn't catch.
"Your stare is boring today, Penelope," he whispered. "Give me the look you had that night. I want to see the real you."
The entire crew held their breath in silence. They couldn't hear the words, but they could feel the shift in the air—the sudden, violent spark of electricity between the model and the man behind the camera. Penelope's breath hitched, her eyes widening with a mix of fury and undeniable heat.
Click. "That's the one," Harlow murmured, capturing her beauty with a smirk that felt like a victory.
"I believe the brief called for 'timeless elegance,' not 'uncomfortable intimacy,'" a cold, familiar voice rang out from the back of the studio.
Penelope froze. Harlow turned slowly.
Percy Morre stood at the edge of the set, looking every bit the protective big brother. He had his hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over Harlow with the kind of look a scientist might use on a specimen he was about to dissect.
"Percy," Penelope said, her voice reclaiming its professional steel. "I didn't know you were dropping by."
"I had a gap between meetings," Percy said, walking toward them. He didn't look at the crew. He looked at his twin sister, then at Harlow. "And I heard the creative direction was becoming... experimental."
The rest of the shoot was conducted under a cloud of heavy silence afterwards. Percy didn't leave; he sat in a director's chair, watching every frame like a hawk. Harlow, to his credit, didn't flinch, but the playful provocation was gone, replaced by a tense, professional battle for dominance.
Once the "Wrap!" was finally called and the crew began to disperse, Percy signaled for Penelope to join him in the glass-walled green room.
"He's talented," Percy began, not wasting time with pleasantries as he watched Harlow pack his gear through the glass. "But he's stepping out of line. I've seen you walk the runway without breaking a sweat, Pen. Something is going between you two and it's a matter of time before everyone else sees it. Before mother sees it."
"I know. I have it under control, Percy," Penelope snapped, unpinning a diamond brooch.
"Do you?" Percy stepped closer, his voice softening but remaining firm. "I know that look, Pen. I see it in the mirror when I think about Gemini. But this man isn't Gemini. He's a wild card. One wrong move from him could ruin everything we've worked for. If you want him gone—if he's making things difficult—I can have him removed from this city. Just say the word."
Penelope looked at her brother. She saw the genuine concern there, the instinct to protect his own by destroying any possible threat. He could do it, she thought. He could make Harlow disappear, and she could go back to her quiet, organized life.
"No," Penelope said, her voice steady. "Don't worry about it. I told you, I'll handle it. He's the best photographer for this job, and I'm not letting a personal...complication ruin this."
Percy studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Fine. Handle it. But if he crosses the line in public like that again, I won't ask for permission next time."
Ten minutes later, Penelope was in the back of her town car, her heart finally slowing down. She pulled out her phone. She knew Percy was right—Harlow was a wild card. But after last night, she wasn't sure she was ready to let go just yet.
She pulled up their text thread and typed a message with a steady hand. Telling him where and when to meet her. She hit send and leaned back against the leather seat, a small, dangerous smile playing on her lips. She was taking Percy's advice—she was going to handle it. She just didn't tell him how.