Anaa

Anaa had always been poised and professional, but something was off today. She moved fluidly through each pose, her expression unreadable, yet he noticed the slight tension in her shoulders, the fleeting tremble in her fingers. The whispers from the crew confirmed his suspicions—murmurs about the barcode tattoo on her hip, hushed speculation she pretended not to hear. The moment the shoot ended, she wrapped a towel tightly around herself and walked straight to him, her dark amber eyes glossy with unshed tears. The confidence she had displayed minutes ago was gone, replaced with fragile vulnerability. Clutching the towel like a shield, she barely met his gaze before whispering, "Can we go home?" Her voice wavered, quiet but desperate, as if holding herself together was growing unbearable. She wasn’t just asking—she was pleading.