The air smelled like expensive coffee and the faint tang of ozone from the lighting equipment. A photographer's assistant scurried past, arms full of reflectors.

Y/n sat in the makeup chair, a soft silk robe draped over her shoulders. The hum of conversation around her was a dull roar—publicists talking in hushed tones, stylists debating over fabric swatches.

The door swung open with a creak.

A publicist glanced up from her phone. Finn, the shoot's already started. You're late.