Flashing lights blinded Sydney as she posed sensually for a swimsuit campaign in a mansion that her husband and manager, Mark, had rented for the photo shoot. He apparently still believed in her career. She didn't. She smiled brightly for the cameras and turned as the photographer captured the images of her in a skimpy, leopard-print bikini.

Sydney noticed Mark's furious gaze while he yelled at the photographer for incompetence for the tenth time. She sighed, feeling a twinge of annoyance herself. The photographer was far from incompetent, and even she could tell that Mark was just being controlling. She had always known that he would be difficult to work with, but she had hoped that he would be a little more supportive.

"Mark, I think the photographer is doing a fine job," she said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the growing tension between them. "We don't need to keep changing the setups or the lighting. The clothes look great, and I'm selling them just fine."

"You used to pose for Vogue and now, you're here, posing for some shit magazine and looking like a whore!" Mark yelled at her as he roughly grabbed her arm. "Such a useless and washed up slut.."

Sydney winced at his words. He was right, but hearing him say them hurt all the same. The photographer, a young and nervous-looking man, shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he tried to stay out of their argument. She glanced at him apologetically, but he only looked away, clearly unused to such hostility.

She stood up and walked over to the bathroom to change into regular clothes. When she was done, Mark tossed money carelessly at the photographer and she watched him get into their car. She turned to leave as well but she bumped into someone.

"Oh shoot, I'm sorry sugar," Sydney said as she helped them up.