The LUXE Business photoshoot was a carefully orchestrated affair, designed to sell the perfect illusion.
Everything about it had been curated down to the finest detail. The location, a private Parisian estate owned by one of the most powerful families in luxury fashion. The set design, a seamless blend of modern power and old-money opulence. The wardrobe, a balance between effortless sophistication and carefully calculated seduction.
And of course, the models. Vincent and Sloane, the most talked-about couple in the world.
Except, behind the flashing cameras and carefully curated shots, there was no romance. No love story. Just a war disguised as a wedding.
Sloane was used to this. She had built her entire life around commanding a room, bending the world to her will with a single glance. She didn't believe in playing a role, she became it.
Which was exactly why, when she arrived at the estate, she walked in like she owned the place.
The soft click of her heels echoed across the marble as she stepped inside, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, an ivory silk dress draped over her frame with just the right amount of effortlessness.
She didn't look at anyone. Didn't acknowledge the photographers or the stylists hovering nearby. She simply moved, weaving through the set with the quiet kind of power that made people straighten in her presence.
And then, there was Vincent.
He looked obnoxiously perfect, dressed in a tailored black suit that fit him like a second skin, his tie loosened just enough to look intentional. He exuded power in a way that was maddeningly effortless, his stance relaxed, his smirk lazy, like he had already won.
She glanced around the lavish set, the glossy LUXE branding, the team of stylists fussing over final details. "I see you've made yourself comfortable."
"I was waiting for you." He tilted his head, voice dipping just slightly. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
Sloane smiled, slow and lethal. "Oh, darling." She stepped closer, the soft scent of her perfume curling around them. "I make everyone wait."
Vincent's gaze flickered, a brief knowing glint.
Before he could respond, the lead photographer clapped his hands. "Alright, let's get started. We have a tight schedule today."
Sloane barely glanced at the team as they rushed around, adjusting lights and setting up backdrops.
She was too busy watching Vincent.
He was still watching her, too. And neither of them were backing down.
The first set of photos was easy.
Power shots.
Vincent seated in a leather chair, radiating dominance, while Sloane stood beside him, a picture of cold, effortless control. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her expression unreadable, her presence just as commanding as his.
Then came the closer shots.
More intimate. More personal.
Sloane barely tensed when the stylist instructed Vincent to stand behind her, his hand resting on her waist as she leaned into his side.
She could handle that. But then, the photographer pushed further.
"Let's get something softer," he directed, stepping forward. "Vincent, pull Sloane closer. Less formal, more chemistry."
Sloane's spine straightened slightly, but she didn't resist when Vincent's arm curled around her waist.
His fingers pressed into her skin.
Subtle. Possessive.
The heat of his body bled through the layers of fabric, his grip firm but effortless, like he had done this a hundred times before.
The camera clicked.
"Perfect. Now, Vincent, lower your head slightly."
Vincent obeyed.
And suddenly, his lips were at her ear.
Sloane's breath hitched before she could stop it.
She hated that reaction. She hated that he noticed.
Vincent's smirk was barely there, his breath warm against her skin. "Relax, sweetheart," he murmured, low and private. "You look tense."
Sloane swallowed, keeping her expression smooth. "Maybe I just don't like being touched."
Vincent hummed, tilting his head slightly. His nose brushing against her temple, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Liar."
Sloane's nails curled against his forearm, her body torn between stiffening and melting.
The worst part? She didn't know which would be the greater defeat.
"Beautiful," the photographer praised, taking another series of shots. "Now, Sloane, turn toward him."
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to move.
She turned, angling her body toward Vincent. His hand slid lower, too low.
Not improper. Not unprofessional. But enough to make her pulse skip. Enough to make it look real.
Sloane hated him.
And worse, she hated that this would be the most convincing lie she had ever told.
By the time the session ended, her entire body was humming in frustration. She needed a moment.
So she left the set before anyone could stop her, stepping outside onto the secluded garden terrace. The air was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering beneath the surface.
She had barely exhaled when the door behind her clicked open.
She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You left in a hurry," Vincent murmured, stepping closer.
Sloane stared ahead, watching the city beyond the estate walls. "If you're here to gloat, don't waste your breath."
Vincent chuckled. "Oh, sweetheart. I don't need to gloat."
She finally turned, her glare sharp. "Then what do you want?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he studied her, gaze tracing over her features like he was looking for something.
It made her uneasy. It made her feel seen.
Sloane lifted her chin, masking her discomfort with indifference. "I suppose you think you won today."
Vincent exhaled a quiet laugh. "You think this is about winning?"
She arched a brow. "Isn't it?"
He took another step forward. Too close.
Sloane swallowed, refusing to move. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Vincent studied her, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. "You think if you push hard enough, if you fight me long enough, you'll come out on top."
Sloane's breath felt too shallow. "And?"
Vincent's smirk was slow, lethal.
"And I think…" His fingers brushed against her wrist, barely there. "You're terrified of what happens if you lose."
Sloane's stomach dropped.
For the first time, she didn't know if she wanted to win this war at all.