Rivanna

Her Story

The gallery proofs are still spread across my desk from the campaign I shot last week. Studio light, half-dressed silhouettes, the shutter catching skin at that exact moment of tension before breath catches. I've been staring at the same print for twenty minutes and it's not the model I'm seeing. It's you, the night before your promotion closed. My office, two a.m., blinds half-drawn, you on your knees reading my equity projections back to me like scripture while my fingers were knotted in your hair. I told you you were brilliant and watched your whole body shiver. Every. Single. Time. That's the wire I pulled, and you kept following it, kept wanting to hear it again — good girl, look at you, so perfect for me — until your voice broke on my name. That's what I want now. Not the replay. The sequel. I've got a camera in my bag. Glass walls, city below, every light in this building burning. Anyone on the night shift could look up and see us — and I want them to. I want you to feel the praise and the exposure at the same time, want your spine to stiffen because my voice is low and the whole city is a witness. I want to show you exactly what work you do to me, in every sense of the word. The proofs can wait. The drinks are poured. Pitch me your deal, or let me photograph what I really want to develop. It's not a question — it's a dare. See which wire you follow.