Chapter Seven- Photoshoot Tension

Eliana’s POV

I had three rules going into this photoshoot. 

Do not kiss him.

Do not look like you want to kiss him.

Do not let anyone capture photographic evidence that suggests rules one or two were ever in danger.

By the time we finished the first pose, I was failing all three.

The studio was a minimalist’s wet dream—concrete floors, massive white walls, lighting so soft it could turn a mugshot into Vogue-worthy glamour. The team buzzed around us with designer enthusiasm: makeup artists retouching my lipstick, stylists tugging on Alexander’s lapels, the photographer shouting things like “YES! That’s it! Give me that tension!”

Tension, huh?

We had it in spades.

Not the romantic kind. The kind where you fantasize about setting someone’s shirt on fire while making out with them against a wall.

Alexander hadn’t said much since we arrived. He didn’t need to. His silence was louder than most people’s shouting.

He looked good. Annoyingly good.

Black suit. Crisp white shirt. The top button undone like he hadn’t tried, but somehow still won.

And then there was me—squeezed into a floor-length red gown with a slit up one leg that said “bride-to-be” and “I might step on your throat” in equal measure.

“Closer,” the photographer barked. “Let’s get some intimacy now. Alexander, hold her waist—yes, just like that. Eliana, tilt your chin up—look at him like you adore him.”

Adore.

Right.

I tilted my chin, met his eyes, and very nearly combusted.

Alexander’s hand rested on my waist, fingers splayed with lazy confidence. His thumb grazed my ribs. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My heart was thundering like a drumline.

“You’re stiff,” he murmured, lips inches from mine.

“I’m trying not to punch you,” I whispered back. “Forgive me if I’m tense.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice like silk over steel. “No one can tell.”

Then he leaned in and added, even lower, “Except me.”

The photographer’s camera clicked like rapid-fire gunshots. “Oh my God, that’s stunning—hold it! Yes, just like that! More chemistry!”

More chemistry?

We were about one breath away from spontaneous combustion.

Alexander brushed a strand of hair behind my ear—his fingers warm, deliberate, slow. My breath hitched.

“You’re faking this too well,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not faking anything,” he murmured. “That’s your department.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you smile for the camera but look at me like you want to skin me alive.”

“I do.”

He smiled—just a sliver. “Kinky.”

God help me.

“Okay!” the photographer called out. “Now let’s do the seated poses!”

Seated meant closer. Fewer barriers. More opportunities for him to invade my space and sanity.

We sat on a velvet chaise lounge while the crew adjusted lighting. Alexander shifted closer—because of course he did—and laid his arm across the back of the seat, his hand nearly brushing my bare shoulder.

The moment it did, a shiver crawled up my spine. My traitorous spine.

“Relax,” he said under his breath, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear like an accident that was absolutely not an accident. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

He looked pointedly at my exposed leg. “You’re not dressed like someone expecting comfort.”

“I’m dressed like someone who has to play fiancée to a heartless corporate machine. Forgive me if I tried to look hot doing it.”

His gaze dropped down my body.

“Mission accomplished.”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Flirting implies I care whether you respond.”

I could not win with him. I didn’t even know why I tried.

“Alright!” the photographer called. “We’re going for the forehead-touch shot. It’s raw, vulnerable, intimate—press your foreheads together like it’s the last time you’ll see each other.”

I made a face. “You’re joking.”

Alexander turned his face to mine. “Unfortunately, he’s not.”

“Fine,” I hissed. “Let’s get it over with.”

We leaned in. His hand cupped the side of my neck. Our foreheads touched. And for a split second, I forgot to hate him.

His breath fanned across my lips. Our noses nearly brushed.

It was fake.

It was all fake.

But my heart didn’t seem to know that.

“You’re breathing too fast,” he whispered.

“Maybe I’m plotting your murder.”

“Maybe you’re picturing something else entirely.”

I swallowed.

I didn’t reply.

Because maybe, just maybe… he was right.

___

Alexander’s POV.

The moment the photoshoot ended, I wanted out.

Out of the studio. Out of the act.

Out of whatever goddamn spell Eliana Rivera had just cast over my blood and every one of my better instincts.

My jaw was tight. My hands looser than they should’ve been. I hadn’t felt that out of control in years.

She slid into the car first—smooth, confident, barely aware of the fact that she’d just nearly undone me in front of half a dozen people

with a single look.

I followed, shutting the door behind me with more force than necessary.

The silence inside the backseat of the car was thick. The kind you didn’t break with idle conversation.

She crossed her legs. My gaze dropped, uninvited.

Her dress had ridden up an inch higher than it should’ve. My pulse kicked. I looked away. Out the window. At the door handle. At literally anything that wasn’t the curve of her thigh or the echo of her breath still on my skin.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this.

I didn’t want to feel this.

Eliana Rivera was not a woman I liked. She was stubborn, self-righteous, manipulative when she wanted to be. And she was currently the best possible shield I could put between Cassian Rivera’s blackmail and my brother’s future.

She wasn’t supposed to be beautiful. Or clever. Or poised in that maddening way that made me want to tear her apart just to see if she’d finally react.

But then she’d walked into that shoot in red, with that slit and those eyes—and I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe.

Every touch we faked burned into my memory like it mattered. The way her breath hitched when I touched her waist. The way her lips parted when we leaned in, foreheads pressed together, not quite kissing. 

I was close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her neck. How much faster would it beat if I wrapped her hair around my fist and pulled her head back? If I kissed her until her mouth bruised and hiked up her dress until she begged me to fuck her?

Heat ran to my groin.

I wasn’t interested in actually fucking her, but she was so prim and proper she begged for corruption.

I wanted to pin her to that velvet sofa, tear the gown from her body, and ruin that perfect little mask she wore like armor.

My jaw clenched again.

She turned slightly toward me, lips curled just enough to tempt violence or sin. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Not everything’s about you.”

She smiled—smug, because she knew damn well what she’d done to me. “You looked tense during that forehead shot. Were you afraid the press would catch your real feelings?”

I turned to her slowly, meeting her gaze dead-on.

“No,” I said, voice like cut glass. “I was afraid they'd make me kiss you.”

Her expression faltered. Just for a second. But I saw it—the flicker of something unguarded.

It didn’t help. It made everything worse.

I looked away, adjusting the cuff of my shirt to distract from the fact that I was still painfully, inappropriately hard beneath a custom Tom Ford suit.

What the hell was wrong with me?

She infuriated me. I didn’t even trust her. She was arrogant, spoiled, a little too good at turning a situation to her advantage.

And yet.

Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about how close she’d been. The weight of her thigh against mine. The smell of her perfume. The sound of her breath when she forgot to be composed.

I needed a cold shower.

Or a lobotomy.

Instead, I reached for the privacy divider and raised it. Just in case.

She arched a brow. “Scared you’ll say something inappropriate?”

“No,” I said. “Scared I might not stop at words.”

Her breath caught.

She turned her head, looking out the window, hiding whatever she didn’t want me to see.

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

But even in silence, I could still feel her.

And I hated every second of it.