Photographer 53 (Patreon)

As I stepped out of the car, I used the opportunity to take stock of the woman, who was most likely the agent who was about to show me the location. 

The first thing that I noticed, was her hair. Platinum blonde, though under the midday sun, it almost looked white. It was cut to a medium length, barely reaching her shoulders, but with a sharp edge that highlighted the aura of professionalism she was trying to radiate. 

She was a beautiful woman, despite the expression of distaste on her face that looked like she had just swallowed a lemon, or smelled something unpleasant. “When I told you to leave, I meant you to leave with your car,” she said with a sharp, dismissive tone as she raised her well-manicured fingers, making a show of checking them. “Unless, of course, you don’t have the money for the gas as well. It wouldn’t be shocking considering you can’t afford to a motel for your whore.” 

I just smirked at her insults. Her catty attitude would have been annoying, but I had spent a lot of time with professional fashion models. Their narcissism and their constant crisis of identity drove them to constantly cut down everyone around them. Add in the constant hunger, it felt like being locked in a bunch of rabid cats. 

In comparison, the insults from the woman revealed more about her than the insults affecting me. Especially when combined with some of the other details. 

The shoes she was wearing were properly expensive — the kind that required not only five figures but also a waiting list. More importantly, they were real and not fake … but they were from a year ago. Similarly, her small handbag was expensive, but outdated. 

Interesting, as there were other, more timeless bag designs that she could have purchased if she was trying to splurge on one good handbag to brag about her success as a salesperson. 

Interested in that, I started examining the rest of her clothing. The blouse was equally expensive and silk, but there were some signs of fraying. The skirt was in a similar condition. Her manicure and haircut were good … but not the kind of good that required thousands of dollars per appointment. 

Add in a posh accent that suggested at least some of her education happened overseas, and I reached a fun conclusion. 

My real estate agent was a proper rich person — not the second car rich, but private plane rich — before she had ended up in dire straights. And, she was too young — my guess, twenty-two — to lose it herself. 

So, either daddy cut her off, or he went bankrupt. Considering she was trying to sell houses in the middle of nowhere, likely the second. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” she repeated when I just smirked at her rather than answering. “Leave, or I call the police. You can push your car if you can’t afford gas.” 

I thought about revealing my conclusions about her current state, but I kept them back. Not because of any kind of mercy … but teasing her slowly was more fun. 

Especially if she was as desperate to close the deal as I thought… 

“I’m sorry, but it won’t be possible,” I said with a shrug, watching as her expression shifted. At first, it was pure anger, like it was incomprehensible for the world to not work the way she expected … but she managed to hide it soon. 

Her old rich-person habits, I recognized. 

How entertaining. 

“And why would that be?” she asked. 

“Because I have an appointment here with my realtor,” I said, then smirked. “And, unless I’m entirely mistaken, you’re her. Carol, right? You’re ruder than I expected.” 

It was fun to watch her expression cycling between anger and shock. “You don’t look like someone that would rent a warehouse,” she commented, clearly trying to find a way to take back her earlier insults but failing. 

It was the right decision to tease her. 

I didn’t answer immediately but opened the door and reached the backseat, pulled out my camera, my lens kit, and a couple of reflectors, enough to mark me as a professional photographer. “You’re right, I don’t need a warehouse,” I said. “What I need is a nice, avant-garde space that I could turn into a giant photo studio as long as I’m happy with the place.” 

“I see, how fascinating,” she said, her eyes brightening as she smelled an urgent sale. She must have really needed the sale. I looked around, and saw her car parked quite a bit away from the building. 

Not accidentally, as it was a rust-bucket that needed a miracle to move around, enough to destroy her carefully cultivated looks of professionalism. 

She was clearly struggling. Not a surprise, as from the looks, she joined the real estate agency recently … and considering she had the task of renting a huge warehouse that was near impossible to move, she wasn’t exactly favored. 

The potential commission was important. 

“So, you’re an artist, Stephen. How fascinating,” she said. To my shock, she was halfway honest. “You must be really successful to build such an ambitious studio.” 

I shrugged, deliberately casual. “Nothing much, just a few pictures in some places, but I’m bored of commercial work,” I said, acting deliberately dismissive, not even giving her the name of the places I worked with. 

Instead, I walked around my car, acting like I didn’t see her desperately typing on her phone. She already had my name from the application, and now that she knew my work, finding my work wasn’t that difficult. 

My work had been featured in some of the best magazines. And, since the reason for my exile wasn’t available online, she jumped to the very reasonable conclusion that I was the one who abandoned the high fashion world for my own work. 

The amount of money I was ready to pay just to rent a huge workspace further confirmed her conclusion. 

Was that a mean way to start taking revenge? Maybe. 

Certainly not when I compared it to how I planned to continue. 

After all, her insults might have been amusing, but that didn’t free her from the risk of retaliation. 

Acting unaware of what was going on, I opened Nicole’s door. “Now, my dear model, are you ready to walk,” I said. 

“No,” she whispered, soft enough that our prospective agent didn’t hear. “S-she saw me…” 

“In your underwear. Nothing to be ashamed of, not with your assets,” I said. “Think of her as a practice for your neighbors. It’s a good chance to strut around and get confident. You’ll never see her again, and since she’s working to close the deal, she has to play nice.” 

As we talked, Carol was busy going through her phone, no doubt trying to familiarize herself with my work to better sell the place. However, I could see the growing fascination. 

It wasn’t too surprising. She had been rich before, and if there was one thing money didn’t automatically trump over, it was fame, making my proximity to fame somewhat respectable in her eyes even without her clear fall from fame. 

Add in her very fall from grace … and her fascinated expression was even more impressive. While Nicole tried to come up with an answer, I quickly checked my phone as well, but I failed to find any. 

Which implied a scandal, impressive enough that she had to change her name and retreat to a no-name town. 

Interesting, but when Nicole finally spoke, I turned my attention fully to her. “I … I don’t know,” Nicole whispered, sounding indecisive.” 

“Okay, tough love time,” I answer as I lean down even closer. “It’s your indecisive attitude that makes your stupid neighbors think that they can bully you. You need to be more decisive if you don’t want to be bullied. Come on, show me how can you be when you’re determined. It’s the perfect opportunity,” I whispered. 

Luckily, while she might find treating others aggressively challenging, due to her submissive streak, she found ignoring my words as an even bigger challenge. As my words hit her, her expression solidified. “You’re right,” she whispered. 

“Good, now, come out and introduce yourself. And, don’t forget. You’re my best model. You’re confident. Nothing can harm you. And, you’re much sexier than that snotty blonde.” 

“Y-you’re right,” she said as she stepped out of the car, a soft wind making her dress dance right on time to make her exit a cinematic moment. At that moment, no one would try to argue if she introduced herself as a model. 

Of course, we could have done it without her stammer … but, baby steps.