Chapter 4

Ian glanced concernedly at the concealer caked on her bare hip. Psyche thought that Makeup had performed admirably, the bruising barely visible.

“Walter?” Ian asked.

For a moment, confusion etched Psyche’s face.

“What about him?”

“Your hip and shoulder.”

Psyche, finally understanding, shook her head. “Sex accident. Not Walter.”

Ian appeared skeptical.

“Really, but thank you for your concern.” Psyche smiled weakly. “We can retouch this, right?”

“Of course.” The photographer retreated behind his camera.

Idly, Psyche wondered where Cupid was. Probably at The Lonely Heart. She shoved the thought from her mind. Cupid existed in another world.

Psyche forced a smile to her lips, strategically crossed an arm to obscure her nipples, stretched out one leg and posed. Another flash exploded into her vision, and fireflies migrated their frenetic dance to behind her eyes.

The assistant seemed preoccupied with her breasts, his eyes focused well below hers. Accustomed to the treatment, Psyche sighed and plucked the note from the man’s fingers.

“Thank you,” she murmured. When he failed to leave, his attention remaining on her bare chest, she further prompted him. “You’re in the shot.”

“S-sorry,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing, retreating beyond the ring of lights.

Before the next round of blinding flashes, she unfurled the paper in her hand.

Need to talk contracts. W.

She sighed. During the next break, she would find Walter.

The flashes resumed.

The studio robe felt two sizes too small. She didn’t bother with the slippers, opting to simply walk barefoot. The floors of this studio sparkled.

Beyond the bright lights of the photo stage, the temperature diminished steadily until involuntary gooseflesh raised across her arms and thighs, her nipples crinkling beneath the inadequate modesty of the robe. Cool, polished tile greeted her toes.

She knocked at the mostly closed office door.

“Come,” Walter’s voice commanded from within.

Psyche pushed open the door and stepped inside a disorganized office. Walter sat behind an oversized, cluttered mahogany desk. The man resembled a troll under a bridge. Sweat dotted his receding hairline despite the cooler temperature here. She shut the door behind her, the latch engaging with a solid click.

“You wanted to see me? Contracts?”

Walter glanced at the door, then pushed himself to his feet. His eyes raked over her. Like with Stephano, she felt dirty standing in only her robe in this office.

“We’ve known each other for a long time,” Walter said as he rounded the desk to stand too close to Psyche.

“You’re my agent,” she replied cautiously. “At least as long as I’ve been modelling.”

“We’re good together, right?”

Psyche failed to comprehend the conversation.

“We make a decent living,” she answered. His breath washed over her. Expensive cognac.

He’s of our world, Psyche. You should connect with him.

Safe. Comfortable. Profit.

“We could extend our union,” Walter said, his voice serious.

Psyche laughed nervously. “Don’t we already have a representation contract for another year?”

Walter looked at her, his beady eyes shining.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to kiss me?”

“I don’t kiss any of my lovers.”

Except Cupid. Last night.

And despite the rumours, she had never fucked Walter.

Don’t fuck him. I can’t be with you if you fuck him. Destiny ambushes everyone. Even me.

“Do you let them squeeze your tits?”

He’s of your world. You should connect with him.

The crudity repulsed her, yet she nodded.

He’s of your world. Safe.

He called your name.

And suddenly, his hands found her breasts, squeezing her through the inadequate robe. She closed her eyes, her thoughts retreating to Cupid’s hands last night, squeezing her nipples, hand in her hair, up on her tiptoes against the foyer wall. Her thoughts elsewhere, she unconsciously leaned forward, her lips finding Walter’s throat; except in her mind, the collarbone belonged to a beautiful barista. Her lipstick stained Walter’s throat, the collar of his shirt. She moaned.

She’s not of our world. She can never be. I’ll lose everything to be with her.

I’m frightened.

A deep chortle, as if ascended from the underworld, rang in her mind.

His cheap cologne slammed into her senses.

Aglaura’s practical voice rang in her ears.

He’s of our world. Safe. Connect with him.

I DON’T CARE.

She opened her eyes, blinking furiously as his hands continued to grope her. Unlike Cupid’s last night, his fingers drove no desire into her body. Zero. None.

“No. We can’t do this!” she screamed, stepping away, his hands finally leaving her body as she retreated. Her skin crawled. She felt even filthier than her tryst with Stephano. “Walter. Promise me you will never do that again. Ever.”

He merely grinned and reached for her again.

“I want you,” he murmured. “You want me.”

She pushed him hard. Stumbling backward, Walter tripped and unceremoniously tumbled to the floor. Without checking on him, Psyche turned on her bare heel, yanked open the door, and fled back towards the bright lights of the studio.

Before entering the studio, Psyche leaned heavily against the studio wall, fighting gorge from her stomach, mind reeling. His hands continued to grope her breasts. A million steaming showers could never erase the sensation. She’d allowed various executives into her bed to maintain her career, allowed them to grope her at galas, led them to penthouse suites, fucked them senseless. Walter’s advance differed only because he resided closer to her, and perhaps embodied lower than slime.

He existed in her world.

Fortune. Fame. Safety.

Yet, somehow, something had changed within her.

Her hip ached. Her shoulder protested. Her mind replayed her tryst last night in cinematic detail, every caress, every kiss, every tumble from every sofa to unyielding tile. And the climax. The orgasm from the gods.

Cupid.

Cupid had changed in her.

Gathering her thoughts, she straightened and strode back into the studio.

The bright glare of the studio lamps illuminated the prop bed. Without removing the robe, Psyche climbed to the mattress and reclined into the pillows, casting one arm lazily above her head, pulling one knee upwards. Her head swam.

Ian’s voice floated from beyond the lights.

“Are you ready, Psyche?”

Suddenly, the thin protection of the robe seemed very important to her. Her breasts ached.

“A minute? Please?”

Time. Money.

Another voice, familiar but incongruent, followed Ian’s. Psyche struggled to place it.

“Miss? You have a visitor.”

Psyche sighed and swung her legs from the mattress, dropping lithely to the stage. Lost in thought, she wandered towards the anachronistic voice. As she passed again beyond the perimeter of lights, her burly security chief floated from the relative dimness.

Standing beside the bodyguard, Cupid smiled and waved.