Chapter 1: Introduction
The quad is alive with the usual midday chaos—students rushing between classes, backpacks slung over shoulders, laughter cutting through the crisp autumn air. I sit on a bench, my laptop balanced on my knees, the screen reflecting the weak October sun. My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating.
The ad is simple, almost too simple. *"Open Minded High-paying modeling gigs. No experience necessary. Discreet and professional."* I click through to the website, scrolling past the glossy images of women in lingerie, their smiles practiced, their bodies perfect. My stomach tightens. I don’t know if I can do this.
But the numbers on my bank statement scream otherwise. Rent is due in two weeks, and my student loans are a ticking time bomb. The coffee shop job barely covers groceries, and tutoring gigs are few and far between.
I close the laptop and lean back, watching a group of sorority girls giggle as they pass by. Their designer bags swing effortlessly, their manicured nails tapping out texts. They don’t look like they’ve ever had to choose between paying rent or eating.
A gust of wind sends a flurry of orange leaves skittering across the pavement. I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. The air smells like damp grass and pumpkin spice from the food trucks.
I should be in the library, studying for my psych midterm, but instead, I’m staring at my phone, the website still open in my browser.
I don’t know why I’m even considering this. It’s not like I’m desperate. Not yet.
But then I remember the way my landlord’s voice dropped when I asked for an extension last month. The way his eyes flicked to my chest before he shook his head. *Sorry, kid. Rules are rules.*
I exhale, long and slow, and tap the *Apply Now* button.
A form pops up. Name. Age. Measurements. A blank space for a photo.
I glance around the quad. No one’s watching.
I snap a quick selfie, tilting my head just so, letting the light catch the curve of my lips. My hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders, the kind of effortless that took twenty minutes in the mirror. I upload it, then hesitate over the measurements box. Do I lie? The numbers are fine, but I know what they’re really asking.
I type them in. Hit send.
The response comes faster than I expect.
*”Thanks for applying Willow. We’d love to meet you. Here’s the address. Be there by 4 PM on Wednesday.*
I stare at the screen. The address is in a part of town I don’t know, near the old industrial district.
The buildings here are low and nondescript, their windows tinted, their parking lots half-empty. I pull up in my beat-up sedan, fingers tightening on the wheel. The place looks like a dentist’s office, but the sign out front reads *Vogue Models & Talent*.
Inside, the lobby is all white—white walls, white leather couches, a receptionist with a platinum bob and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Willow?” she says, already standing. “You’re the last one.”
I follow her down a hallway lined with framed photos of women in lingerie, their bodies angled just so. The air smells like vanilla and something sharper, something chemical.
The receptionist’s heels click against the polished floor as she leads me into a small room with a single chair, a camera on a tripod, and a woman in a black blazer standing beside it.
“Sit,” the woman says. Her voice is flat, efficient. She doesn’t smile.
I lower myself into the chair, my knees pressing together. The fabric is cold against the back of my thighs. The woman circles me, her gaze sharp, assessing. She doesn’t ask for my name. She already knows it.
“Turn your head,” she says.
I do.
“Look at the camera.”
I do.
The camera clicks. Once. Twice. Three times.
The woman steps back, studying the screen.
Her fingers tap the keyboard, fast and precise. I wait, my pulse thrumming in my throat. The room is too quiet, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound.
“Stand up,” she says. My knees feel weak.
She circles me again, slower this time. Her eyes linger on my waist, my hips, the curve of my breasts under my blouse. I keep my hands at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.
“Take off your sweater.”
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I unbutton it. The fabric slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. The room is cold, but my skin burns.
“Good,” she says.
“Now the blouse.”
I unbutton it, fingers trembling. The fabric slides off my shoulders, leaving me in just my bra and skirt. The air brushes against my skin, too cool, too exposed. The woman’s eyes flick over me, calculating. She doesn’t say anything.
“Turn,” she instructs. Slowly. The camera clicks again.
“Bra.”
I swallow. My hands shake as I reach behind me, unhooking the clasp. The straps slip down my arms. The room is silent except for the hum of the camera’s autofocus.
“Skirt.”
I step out of it.
The fabric pools at my feet. The air is colder now, my skin prickling with goosebumps. The woman’s eyes don’t leave me. She circles me again, slower this time, her gaze lingering on the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist.
“Good,” she says, her voice flat. “You can get dressed.”
I exhale, relief flooding through me. I pull my skirt back on, my fingers fumbling with the zipper. The blouse is harder. My hands won’t stop shaking. The woman watches, her expression unreadable.
“You’re hired,” she says finally. “You are so beautiful. Just gorgeous!”
I freeze.
The words hang in the air, heavy and final. My fingers stall on the buttons of my blouse.
"Hired?" I repeat, stupidly.
The woman nods, already turning away. "You'll start next week. The contract will be emailed to you. Be on time."
I blink. "For... modeling?"
She doesn't look back. "Yes. Modeling."
The receptionist appears in the doorway, her smile still too wide. "We'll see you soon, Willow."
I grab my sweater, my movements clumsy. The fabric snags on my wrist as I tug it on. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating.
I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod. The woman in the black blazer is already walking away, her heels clicking against the floor. The receptionist smiles again, her lips painted a shade of pink that looks too perfect to be real.
“You’ll do great,” she says, as if she’s handing me a flyer for a campus event instead of a life I never imagined.
I don’t know what to say. My mouth moves, but no words come out.
The receptionist tilts her head, her smile softening just a little. “First time?”
I nod again, stupidly.
She laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “It’s okay.
Everyone’s nervous at first.” She glances at her watch. “You’ll get used to it.”
I don’t know what to say. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. The weight of it feels heavier now, as if the air itself has thickened.
“You’ll be great,” she says again, like a mantra. “Just be yourself.”
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
She leads me back to the lobby, her heels clicking against the polished floor. The sound echoes, too loud, too sharp. The front door feels miles away.
Outside, the afternoon sun is still warm, but the breeze carries a chill.
I walk back to my car, my heels clicking against the pavement. My mind races. The contract. The photos. The way the woman’s eyes lingered.
I should feel relieved. I got the job. The money will help.
But my stomach twists.
I slide into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking as I start the engine. The car rumbles to life, but I don’t move. I just sit there, staring at the dashboard.
I should be happy.
I should be celebrating.
But all I feel is a hollow, gnawing dread.
I drive home on autopilot, the city blurring past my windows. My apartment is small, the walls thin, the air stale.
I drop my bag on the couch and kick off my heels. The carpet is worn, the edges frayed. A single lamp casts a dim glow over the room. I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the hem of my skirt.
The email is already there.
I open it.
*"Welcome to Vogue Models & Talent. Your first shoot is scheduled for next Wednesday at 2 PM. Location: Studio A. Dress code: As instructed. Payment: $900 per session. Non-disclosure agreement attached."*
I exhale. The number is more than I make in a month at the coffee shop.
But the words *non-disclosure agreement* make my stomach twist.
I click the attachment. The document is dense with legal jargon, but one phrase stands out: *"Confidentiality regarding all aspects of employment, including but not limited to content, clientele, and personal interactions."*
I close the laptop. The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in. I should be relieved. The money will cover rent, maybe even a few groceries. But my fingers won’t stop trembling.
I stand, pacing the length of my apartment. The floorboards creak under my feet. Outside, the streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows through the blinds. I should call someone. My best friend, maybe. But what would I say?
*"Hey, I just got a job modeling, but I think it might be porn?"* The words feel ridiculous in my head, like something from a bad movie. I pace the length of my apartment, the floorboards creaking under my feet. The air smells like stale coffee and the faint musk of laundry detergent.
My phone buzzes. A text from my best friend, Mia.
*"You coming to the study group tonight?"*
I stare at the screen. The words blur. I should go. I should pretend everything is normal. But my fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen.
*"Can't,"* I type. *"Got a thing."*
The reply comes instantly. *"What kind of thing?"*
I swallow.
My fingers hover over the screen. The truth feels too heavy to type.
*"Just... work stuff."*
Mia’s response is immediate.
*"Ugh, you’re such a mystery lately. Fine, but you owe me details later. We’re getting coffee tomorrow, no excuses."*
I exhale. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift.
The apartment feels smaller now. The walls are thin, and I can hear the neighbors arguing in Spanish next door. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence.
I should study. I should call my mom. I should do anything but sit here, staring at the email.
But my fingers tap out a reply instead.
*"Sure. Tomorrow."*
I close the laptop. The screen goes dark.
I was exhilarated. What was I getting my myself into?
The question gnawed at me all night. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow of my phone screen flickering in the dark. The email sat unopened, the subject line taunting me: *"Welcome to Vogue Models & Talent."*
I should have felt relieved. The money would solve so many problems. But the more I thought about it, the heavier the silence in my apartment became. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant laughter from the street. The way my own breath sounded too loud in the dark.
By morning, I had convinced myself it was just modeling. Lingerie, maybe. Nothing too revealing.
Just posing. Smiling. Maybe a little flirting. That’s all.
I tell myself this as I walk into the coffee shop the next morning. Mia’s already there, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug. She looks up when I approach, her smile fading as she takes in my face.
“You look like hell,” she says.
I slide into the booth across from her. The leather seat is cold against my bare legs. I didn’t even bother with tights today. My skirt rides up as I sit, and I tug it down instinctively.
“Rough night?” Mia asks, stirring her coffee with a little too much force.
I shrug.
"Just tired."
Mia narrows her eyes. "You've been saying that a lot lately."
The steam from her coffee curls between us. Outside, the quad is alive with students, their laughter sharp and careless. I watch them through the window, the way they move without thinking about rent or loans or the way their stomachs twist when they see a bank statement.
"You're hiding something," Mia says.
I force a laugh. "No, I'm not."
She leans back, arms crossed. "You're a terrible liar."
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. I could tell her. I should tell her. But the words won't come.
I stir my coffee, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. The sugar dissolves too slowly, the liquid turning a murky brown.
Mia watches me, her dark eyes sharp. "You've been distant lately. Like you're keeping something from me."
I force a smile. "I'm just stressed about school. You know how it is."
She doesn't buy it. "You're not just stressed. You're hiding something."