Eighty

The photographer hired was none other than Vegas prominent artist John Declan. His name was splashed across magazines and tabloids as one of the most sensuous yet famous photographers in the history of photography.

I couldn't for the life of me understand why Brenda had thought this man was the best person to take our pre-ball pictures or whatever this was called.

"Ah Mrs Lowell, you're quite far away from the master you know?" John Declan declared in a faux french accent that grated my nerves. We were in his rather cosy studio, standing before the backdrop as he directed us into the poses he wanted. The paparazzi were locked outside the building. I knew they were still there even though we couldn't hear them from the soundproofed studio.

"I hadn't realized." I ground out with a stiff smile but apparently, he was either deaf or immune to sarcasm.

"You need to move closer to the master. Yes, a little closer."

Stiffly, I shifted towards Xavier, keeping my face straight and simple.