Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,33

the best I possibly can. Who else can say that? And when images of me, or of other models, end up on social media… There are additional filters. Retouching. And knowing that teenagers compare themselves to… I know, Rhys,” I grind out. “I know. And yet social media and beauty is the currency of my industry. I don’t know how to escape it.”

“Shut down your accounts,” he says quietly. “I’m not saying you have to, but if this is eating at you, that’s one solution.”

I look away from him. “I suggested it to my agency. Mentioned it in passing, actually. That I was tiring of the whole thing.”

“And?”

“I was informed in no uncertain terms that if I did that, I could find myself another agency.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

His hand closes around my arm. “They actually said that?”

“Yes. Don’t tell people that, though.”

“Of course I won’t. But Ivy…”

“That’s the industry.” I shrug. “How many followers girls have on social media determines what gigs they book, what opportunities come their way, their income… It’s everything. That was why I was so happy when I got this job, apart from the obvious—all the traveling. I’m not the model with the highest follower count or the most experience at the agency, but I still booked this one.”

Rhys’s expression is impossible to decipher, like so much of his personality. Is he judging me? Pitying me? It could be either and everything in between.

“I’ve tried,” I say, but it sounds weak to my own ears. “I never edit the pictures I post. I try to be more real, to show behind-the-scenes photos too.”

No sign of his emotions in his eyes. Does it sound as pathetic a compromise to him as it does to me?

But then he sighs. “You’re stuck in between a rock and a hard place.”

“Yeah.”

But what he’d said so succinctly, summed up and neat, had felt like salt in a pre-existing wound. One I’ve pondered how best to heal, with every solution coming up short. I don’t want to be part of the reason why people feel bad. I don’t want to be someone people compare themselves to, not appearance wise.

Rhys slides his hand in his back pocket and hands me my phone, which I’d forgotten about at the hotel. It looks small in his grip. Innocent. Like it’s not the home of all of these problems.

“You’ll figure it out,” he tells me. “The fact that you’re already thinking about this makes it clear you will. There are tons of public profiles who use their platforms for good.”

My smile is a bit forced. The ones who do aren’t models, but then again, I’m not planning on being one forever. “You’re right.”

“You know what else I’m right about?”

“What?”

“We don’t have to spend the entire day shooting. After we’re done by the Eiffel Tower, I want to show you a few places around town. We have enough time before we have to head to the airport.”

“Places you visited when you lived here?”

“The very ones.”

“I’m going to get a tour through Rhys Marchand’s Paris? Does that make me a tourist?”

Rhys shakes his head and looks away, but he’s smiling. “Don’t go there.”

“Will you be carrying a little sign, so I don’t get lost? Are headphones included?”

“Another joke out of you and the tour is cancelled,” he says, nodding ahead. “Let’s go. The faster we take pictures of you, the quicker we can look at the city.”

I pretend to lock up my lips and follow him toward the Eiffel Tower in the distance. We work quickly, gathering the shots necessary for the agency. Rhys adds a few extra ideas, having me stop to buy a croissant, sitting along the Seine, buying art from one of the street vendors. I actually go through with it, too, buying a small painting of the French skyline.

It’ll hang in my tiny New York apartment. I already know the spot.

“Tourist,” Rhys tells me.

“Cynic,” I tell him, and I win, because his lips curve into a half-smile.

We film a lot by the Eiffel Tower—me walking down the steps of Trocadero, with Paris in the foreground. Me sitting on the steps and sipping on a cup of coffee. The clips will be put to good use when he edits together the travel film.

“All right,” he finally declares, screwing on the lens of his camera. He’s staunchly ignoring the tittering of a few teenage girls who have stopped to watch us as we work. The attention makes me uncomfortable in a way it rarely does.