Chapter 1788
No.1
The shutter clicked, capturing the frozen moment.
The resulting image was breathtaking.
Isabella's body leaned forward over her 'table', her face propped elegantly on one fair hand.
Her gaze into the lens was boldly haughty, utterly commanding.
The ugly, shapeless clothes were transformed.
She made them look expensive, avant-garde.
The skirt, flung back, mimicked the effect of a powerful gust of wind.
Her aura was grandiose, stunningly powerful.
The photographer stared at his screen, breathless. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect!"
No.2
No one had imagined a model could salvage such a situation.
Victoria, sitting in front, couldn't see what had happened.
She assumed the praise was for her. She had given her best performance.
"Was it good?" she asked coyly, batting her lashes. "Do you need another shot?"
Victoria’s voice snapped the photographer from his trance.
He had completely forgotten she was even there.
He squinted at the digital display.
The composition was technically flawless.
Victoria’s performance was adequate.
No.3
But the entire background was a wash of soft pink, mirroring the flamingos.
Her avocado-green outfit simply vanished into the scenery.
All visual focus was violently pulled toward Isabella.
Her flaming-red dress was a shock to the senses.
Victoria’s pale colors made her recede, becoming part of the set.
She looked less like a model and more like a piece of furniture.
A very expensive, very dedicated prop.
Isabella’s pose, leaning casually against her, sealed the interpretation.
Victoria smiled dutifully at the camera, clutching the flamingo.
No.4
The overall impression was one of a mistress and her attendant.
A queen and her devoted handmaiden.
It was a perfect shot, if you ignored Victoria’s complete erasure.
“We’re done,” the photographer declared. “It’s perfect. No reshoot needed.”
Isabella immediately turned and walked toward the changing rooms.
The outcome was clear. The battle was over.
Victoria watched her go, a tight smile on her face.
She was certain Isabella was fleeing from her humiliation.
She needed to see those photos now.
No.5
She needed to savor the victory.
She glided over to the photographer, her voice sweet. “Mr. Delacroix, you’ve worked so hard. Might I take a peek at the results?”
“Of course, Miss Kensington,” he said, wary. “But please be careful. This equipment is very fragile. And very expensive.”
“I’ll be extremely careful,” she promised, stepping to the side.
She exchanged a quick, silent look with Isadora.
Isadora nodded almost imperceptibly.
She moved behind Victoria, pulling out her phone.
She pretended to scroll through messages.
Her real intention was to covertly photograph the camera’s screen.
No.6
They both expected to see Isabella’s disastrous shots.
They were prepared to mock her unprofessional hand movement.
The image on the screen stole the breath from their lungs.
Victoria was annihilated.
She was a blur of green, a background extra in Isabella’s stunning feature.
Isabella was the entire story.
Her red dress seemed to flow with its own life, capturing an invisible wind.
She was midsummer personified.
Every solo shot of Isabella was a masterpiece of raw, captivating power.
No.7
Victoria’s solo shots were pretty. Pleasant.
But next to Isabella’s, they looked cheap. Common.
The avocado green made her resemble a store mannequin.
Victoria’s nails dug into her own palms, her smile frozen.
How?
How was this possible?
Those clothes were meant to be her coffin!
They were heavy, ugly, stifling.
Isabella somehow turned them into a crown.