Chapter 7 Laurel

"A bedroom concept? Are we promoting sleeping patterns now?"

"Bathrobes and nightwear," the shoot director corrects, and my O-shaped lips thins into a line. "Is there... an issue with that?"

"Uh ... the thing is..."

"Laurel, do you have a problem with that?" my 'affliction' asks in a deep subduing tone.

"No" escapes my lips half-mindedly. "Absolutely not," I emphasize, veering to him standing beside me.

"Your costumes have been set in your closet," the director says.

It's just me, the director, and Ivan in our suite this time because apparently, Ivan has a thing for his personal space.

'Yet he had cameras implanted everywhere to take pictures.'

Such clownery.

Anyway, I have to get myself ready so I head to the closet.

I must say Ivan goes overboard in defining his 'personal' space. It looks like another bedroom altogether in here. As he said, my costumes are arranged neatly on a standing multi-clothing hanger, and even labeled in the order of which comes first.

I just got out of the pool so I only have a long light silky robe over my underwear. Standing before the standing mirror to take it off, Ivan suddenly appears behind me.

My hands fisted on the robe's placket fall as I whip around to him.

"What are you doing?" I rebuke, saucer-eyed.

"Relax, I haven't come here to spy on you."

"Why then are you here?" I fire, unrelenting.

"To give you a piece of advice."

'Piece of advice?' I let my expression now damp with sneer ask, keeping quiet. "Let's hear it," I casually say without stretching the scornful writhe on my face, crossing my arms.

"Think of me as your ex, Noah – "

"How do you know my ex?" I cut him off wildly, dropping my arms sharply in amazement.

"I'm still getting to the point," he cuts in, tone hitched with molecules of impatience. He's refraining his frustration from leaking into his voice. Well, I cannot help him with that as it's the least I can do to pacify myself – be a pain in his butthole.

"While taking these photos, think of me as your ex. So you don't mess yourself up. Your mind will not be conducive for me so I don't mind not being in there."

"Still, how do you know my ex, Ivan?" I ask demandingly.

"I know more about you than your tiny brain can ever imagine. To make sure you will not be a threat to me and my company, and compound my problems, I ran a thorough background check on you." 'Thorough' rings in my ears, and I pinch my eyes into a thoughtful squint.

How much does he know?

"Did you think I was going to let just anyone into my home?"

He doesn't see me as a threat. But why are his words pricking?

'He just culled you an open book.'

And that TICKS ME OFF.

"Aren't you leaving?" I ask when he walks past me, heading toward the mirror instead of turning around to leave.

"My side of the closet is this way," he says, neither sparing me a glance nor stopping in his tracks. "I have to get changed as well," Then he slides the mirror open. Turns out it's the door demarcating the two sides.

So what? While checking myself out in the mirror after getting ready, he can just slide it back open and catch me red-handed, or even still, watch me from the other side?

'LOL.'

I come out in the 'No. 1' costume – a cherry red babydoll nightie made of silk, that hangs several inches above my knee. Light against my skin, and comfy, it can easily be blown away by the wind.

The director has just finished setting up the stage and is making minimal adjustments when I walk in. He stops to look at me, and then his eyes climb over my head by a few centimeters. Looking back, it's Ivan in silk pajamas matching mine in color.

"We're ready," he says. Pouting my lips, I roll my eyes away.

The director goes on to explain to us how the order of photographs will be, and in summary, it's going to be a LONG night.

The set at a corner of the room comprises a small wooden dress table of which a mirror lined on all four corners by string lights, hangs on the wall above it. It's surrounded by floodlights to provide ample illumination.

"Sit," the director says to me. He's trying to direct us for the first photo. I do as he says. "Spread your legs."

"Huh?!" I impulsively exclaim, furrowing my brows at him.

"Don't get me wrong." He waves. "You have to spread them for him to fit in between," he explains for the second time. He has given us a rundown before, it just came out weird, that's why.

I am to sit on the dressing table with my legs splayed for Ivan to stand in between, looking down at his 'newlywed' romantically. He has his arms crossed behind me now, but for the pose to be complete, both parties have to fix their facial expressions to suit.

"Uh...I trust this wouldn't be awkward since you both are not professional models, because you're married..." he pauses, bouncing his scrutinizing eyes between both of us. "Right?" he completes slowly.

Apparently, he's confused because neither of us would budge. Actually, it's me. I'm doing it again – being uncooperative like a displeased child. My hands are still down instead of behind his head, and if inattentive was a person, that'd be me right now.

Closing his forehead in on mine, he says, his voice barely above a whisper, "Think of me as him, Laurel." He of course cannot yell at me in the director's presence. And so far, the most interesting part of the shoot is when he has to speak mildly to get me to do his bidding.

"He looks nothing like you," I retort in a whisper.

"Unarguably true. He can't look this good," he backfires, and I bite my lower lip, pained. "But you can at least think of a steamy moment ..." I scrunch my brows in a sneer. "A happy moment? What about a funny moment?" The latter triggers a hilarious memory, hauling a hearty peal of laughter from the depths of my soul. It's an image of Noah's face after trying a new dish, that pops into my head. I had laughed my heart out on that day, and the sound from that day as I can recall, replays in the room.

Absorbed back in time, I am finally ready to take the shot. Placing my hand behind Ivan's head, he slants his forehead to rest above my cleavage exposed beneath the nightwear's V-neck. On the other hand, I raise my face heavenward, an affectionate smile stretching my lips before a white flashing light engulfs us both.

Hours Into The Next Morning...

"There's something in your – "

I slap off the long slender fingers looming around my eyes. "Don't touch me when we're not on set," I warn.

His eyes travel sideways like it's drawing the base of a triangle, perhaps surveying our surroundings to see if anyone saw that.

We're out in the open, several meters away from the main building, somewhere in the park behind the hotel but still on its premises. The crew is busy setting up detachable tents for change of clothes and any other preparations altogether, while me and Ivan are standing at a corner, waiting to be told to get ready.

Angling his eyes down to me, he says, "You promised to be a good girl."

"I AM being a good girl," I accentuate. "By not stressing the crap out you and your teammates, and agreeing to stand behind the camera with lousy smiles that have my cheeks almost bursting with irritation ... I AM being a good girl, Ivan," I argue, almost whispering the last part.

"Uh..." a third voice slips into our midst. I glance quickly to see who and it's the director wearing his usual clueless look, and 'gawking' at us. "Is there a problem?"

Did he notice us fighting?

'Is he keeping an eye on you?'

I don't respond, facing the other way.

"Laurel," Ivan calls, rolling my eyes back to him. "Is everything okay?" acting naïve, he passes the question to me, shoving me into the spotlight. Now I have four eyeballs boring holes in me and it's awkward! Ivan makes it seem like he's totally fine and I'm the one who deserves the question.

"Ye-yeah!" I nod actively, my gaze marrying the director's after shooting Ivan a quick glare. "Everything's okay, we were just..." my eyes rove back to Ivan before releasing through gritted teeth, "talking."

Unminding, he shifts his eyes away from me. "What?" he poses to the director.

"Aspen is here with the Ad team," he relays. "The kids are here as well."

"The kids?" I muse aloud unknowingly.

"Send them in," he says, and the director leaves.

"THE KIDS?"