Her stomach dropped.
"I'm not a model—"
"Don't need a model. Need authenticity. And don't worry, I'll keep your face anonymous. Come."
She looked at Manager Park.
Who shrugged.
"If it's for the shoot."
No escape.
The photographer snapped his fingers.
"Stylists! I need her ready in fifteen minutes."
Wait, what?
Before Soorin could protest, two designers appeared.
Grabbed her arms.
Pulled her toward the wardrobe area.
"Wait, I don't—"
"No time! We need you camera-ready!"
They whisked her behind a partition.
Started pulling clothes off racks.
Holding them up.
Assessing.
Soorin's horror grew with each outfit.
"Something modest," she said desperately. "Please. Something—"
"The photographer wants sensual. Elegant but sensual."
"But I'm just makeup staff—"
"Not anymore. Arms up."
They dressed her efficiently.
Professionally.
No room for argument.
When they finally stepped back, Soorin looked down.
And her heart stopped.
The dress was silver.
Iridescent.
