And there it was. The real reason she'd called me here. Camille Valentine, eternal source of pressure and impossibly high standards.
"Fine. What do you need?"
Relief softened her features. "Just stay close. I may need a second opinion on some styling choices."
"I wear the same three shirts in rotation."
"I've noticed." Her lips quirked. "It's charming in its simplicity."
Was that... a compliment? From Vivienne Valentine? Maybe I'd died over the weekend and this was some weird purgatory.
For the next hour, I followed her around like a shadow, watching as she transformed from tightly-wound teenager to confident creative director. She spoke to the photographers with authority, adjusted lighting setups with the precision of someone who'd been doing this for decades, and handled a model meltdown with surprising gentleness.
"You're good at this," I said during a rare quiet moment, leaning against a light stand while she reviewed shots on a digital camera screen.
