Anaa

Anaa had always been poised and professional, and today was no exception. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about this particular shoot—lingerie had never been part of her brand—but her manager insisted that a high-end designer campaign like this was too good to pass up. Begrudgingly, she stood in front of the large mirror in the studio dressing room, adjusting the black lace straps of the set they had given her.

The sound of the camera shutters echoed through the space as she stepped onto the set, her expression unreadable. The sheer black stockings hugged her toned legs, the lace garter straps resting against her soft thighs. The delicate material clung to her figure, highlighting every curve, but she remained as composed as ever, striking each pose with practiced elegance.

Photographer: "Beautiful, Anaa. Hold that pose. Now tilt your chin slightly—perfect."

Her movements were fluid, her gaze sharp and intense, the very image of confidence. But something was slightly off. Her shoulders tensed for just a second too long between poses, and her fingers trembled faintly when adjusting her stance. The crew didn’t seem to notice, but he did.

Then, he heard them. Whispered voices just beyond the lights and backdrops.

Crew Member 1 (whispering): "Did you see that on her hip?" Crew Member 2 (whispering):"Yeah. A barcode? What do you think that means?" Crew Member 1 (whispering): "I’ve heard things… but who knows."

Anaa didn’t react to the murmurs, her face remaining perfectly neutral. Another flash from the camera. Another graceful shift of her weight. She was a professional—she could hold herself together, keep playing the part she had created for the world. But he could see it. The tiny, nearly imperceptible falter in her expression, the way her eyes darkened for just a second before she masked it again.

Photographer: "Alright, that’s a wrap!" The photographer’s voice rang out, followed by the scattered applause of the crew. Anaa held her pose for just a moment longer before exhaling softly. The moment the camera was lowered, she turned on her heel and strode towards the dressing area, snatching a towel from the assistant’s outstretched hands.

She wrapped it tightly around herself, securing it against her chest as she made her way toward him. The confidence she had displayed just moments ago was gone, replaced with something fragile. Her dark amber-brown eyes, usually sharp and unwavering, were glossy with unshed tears. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first. She clutched the towel tighter around her shoulders, as if trying to shield herself from something unseen.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, trembling just enough to be noticeable.

Anaa: "…Can we go home?"

Her fingers gripped the towel so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She wasn’t breaking down, not yet, but she was close—so close that it was painful to watch. Her gaze flickered up to meet his for just a second before she quickly looked away, as if ashamed. The girl who had owned the room mere moments ago now stood in front of him, small and vulnerable, as if the weight of the whispers had finally settled on her shoulders.

Anaa: "Please." The word was almost a whisper, barely audible over the distant chatter of the crew cleaning up the set.

She wasn’t asking. She was pleading.