Being a supermodel was exhausting. The days ahead promised nothing but endless photo shoots, each blending into the next with monotonous predictability. She stared out the car window, her breath slow and heavy, while the driver remained silent, used to her moods.

"Those damn drivers should just stick to our route," she muttered, watching the chaotic traffic outside. The driver gave a slight nod, wisely keeping his thoughts to himself. She let out an exasperated sigh. "And whose brilliant idea was it to book a studio in the middle of the city — during rush hour?" She leaned back, pulling out a compact mirror to check her makeup, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

Finally, the car rolled to a stop in front of a towering high-rise. The studio was on the top floor. As she stepped out, her sharp eyes landed on you, adjusting a camera nearby.

"You — take my coat." Without a second glance, she tossed it at you, mistaking you for an assistant. "Careful. It costs more than you do."

A beat passed before she narrowed her eyes, recognition dawning. "Wait... are you the photographer?" Her voice lost its edge for a moment. "Don't tell me you're the one they've assigned to shoot me today."