She was fixing me

I pressed the ice pack against my aching eye, letting out a slow exhale as I slumped back into the passenger seat of Lydia's car.

Tasha did not hold back.

She had landed one hell of a punch, and I was definitely going to feel this for a while.

But honestly?

I wasn't even sure why I had fought her.

It had been a blur of sharp words, rising tempers, and then—

"I bet I could get Lydia in my bed before you could."

And something in me had snapped.

I wasn't thinking when I threw the first punch.

Didn't even question why it bothered me.

All I knew was that Tasha was wrong.

Because I was winning that game, not her.

…Not that it was a game.

Not that I cared.

I shifted slightly, adjusting the ice pack, the cold stinging against the bruised skin.

Lydia was completely silent beside me, hands gripping the wheel, her expression unreadable.

I could feel the disapproval radiating off of her.

And I knew it was only a matter of seconds before—

"Why," Lydia asked, her tone sharp and controlled, "did you fight Tasha?"

I stared out the window.

"Wasn't important."

Her fingers tightened slightly on the wheel. "Freya—"

"I said it was nothing."

She sighed, long and slow, clearly not convinced but deciding to drop it.

For now.

Instead, she shifted gears—because of course she did. Lydia Whitmore did not linger on chaos. She fixed things.

And right now, she was fixing me.

"Your schedule for the rest of the day," she said, her voice professional, smooth, controlled. "Since you decided to waste everyone's time fighting your own teammate, training was cut short."

I made no sound, just adjusted the ice pack.

Lydia continued anyway.

"You have a meeting with a sponsor this afternoon. They want you to model their new sportswear collection."

I groaned.

She didn't react.

"It's non-negotiable," she added. "They're one of your biggest sponsors, and your reputation with brands has already taken a hit from… past behavior."

I rolled my eyes.

"Past behavior?" I repeated, voice mock innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Lydia turned her head slightly, giving me a look.

I smirked.

She didn't bite.

"Act good," she said simply.

I leaned back, letting the silence stretch between us, the soft hum of the car filling the space.

Lydia was waiting for me to argue.

To push back.

To tease her into breaking her perfect, controlled exterior.

But this time?

I stayed quiet.

---

The car rolled smoothly into the sponsor's parking lot, the sleek glass building of Vellure Sportswear towering above us.

The company was one of the biggest brands in athletic apparel, known for their high-performance gear and aggressive marketing.

And today, I was their walking billboard.

I let out a dramatic sigh, tossing the now half-melted ice pack onto the dashboard.

"You know," I mused, stretching lazily in my seat, "I think I should get a bonus for modeling with an injury. Adds character. Makes me look tough."

Lydia, of course, didn't even look at me as she checked her watch.

"You should get fined for getting into a fight the day of a major sponsorship shoot," she said coolly.

I grinned, because of course she'd say that.

"You're really gonna act like this isn't an improvement?" I teased. "The rugged, battle-worn athlete look? People love that."

Lydia finally turned to me, her green eyes sharp.

"Do you want me to go in there and tell them you got yourself beaten?"

I blinked.

She lifted a brow.

I scoffed. "Hell no."

"Then get out of the car."

I sighed dramatically, making a show of unbuckling my seatbelt at the slowest pace possible.

Lydia did not react.

I rolled my eyes and pushed the door open, stepping out into the crisp autumn air. Lydia was already moving, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement as she led the way toward the entrance.

The glass doors slid open automatically, revealing a spacious lobby with high ceilings, minimalist décor, and a ridiculously polished floor.

A sleek reception desk sat in the center, where a well-dressed woman looked up and immediately smiled.

"Miss Vesper," she greeted, her eyes briefly flicking toward my bruised eye before snapping back into polite professionalism. "Welcome. We've been expecting you."

Lydia, standing beside me with her usual impeccable posture, nodded once.

"Where's the team?" she asked smoothly.

"They're ready in Studio Three," the receptionist answered. "If you'd follow me?"

I grinned, throwing an arm around Lydia's shoulder as we walked. "You hear that? They've been expecting me."

Lydia peeled my arm off without a second thought.

"Yes," she said. "Because you're contractually obligated to be here."

I snickered, hands in my pockets as we followed the receptionist down a pristine white hallway.

Eventually, we reached Studio Three, where the doors swung open to reveal a fully prepped styling and photography area.

Bright lights, multiple backdrops, racks of sportswear in various colors.

And—

An entire team of people waiting for me.

"Freya!"

A petite woman with bright red glasses and a no-nonsense expression strode toward me, looking me up and down like I was a mannequin.

"You're late."

"Not by much," I said easily.

She ignored that, grabbing my chin between her fingers, tilting my head from side to side.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw the bruise.

"Oh, for the love of—what the hell happened to your face?"

"Got into a fight," I said cheerfully. "Looks badass, right?"

The woman, who I now recognized as Sasha—lead stylist and professional perfectionist, let out a long, suffering sigh.

"I hate you," she muttered, then snapped her fingers. "Makeup team! Fix this!"

Two makeup artists immediately swooped in, leading me toward a styling chair.

As I sat down, Lydia took a seat in the corner, pulling out her notebook like she was making sure I didn't escape.

"You look like you're planning a hostile takeover," I called over to her.

She didn't even glance up.

"Just making sure you do your job," she replied smoothly.

Sasha clapped her hands together. "Alright, people! Today's look is simple, clean, but bold."

She turned to me, adjusting her glasses dramatically.

"Sports bras and shorts today," she said. "Minimalist. Sleek. We're going for power and athleticism. Which means—"

She gestured at my face.

"No bruises allowed."

One of the makeup artists, a guy with dark curls and a sharp winged eyeliner, hummed as he examined my face.

"Honey," he sighed, shaking his head, "you've really been through it, huh?"

"You have no idea," Lydia muttered.

I smirked, watching as he pulled out a color-correcting palette.

"Don't worry, darling," he assured me. "I'll make you look flawless again."

He got to work, blending, correcting, making sure the bruise disappeared completely under layers of expertly applied makeup.

Meanwhile, another stylist worked on lightly tousling my hair, giving it an effortless, fresh-out-of-training-but-still-perfectly-styled look.

Once they were finished, Sasha handed me the outfit—

A sleek black sports bra with the Vellure logo printed subtly along the band, paired with matching high-waisted shorts that were just short enough to be distracting.

I whistled. "Damn, you guys really know how to make a statement."

"Obviously," Sasha said.

I stood, adjusting the fit before turning toward the massive mirror at the side of the room.

And, I had to admit—

I looked good.

Strong. Sharp. Every line of my body accentuated in the way that made me look like I had zero weaknesses.

Sasha smirked in satisfaction.

Lydia finally looked up from her notebook, her sharp gaze assessing me for half a second before looking away again.

No reaction.

As always.

I grinned.

"Don't be shy, Whitmore," I teased, flexing slightly. "You can look."

She didn't even blink.

"I've seen better," she said flatly.

Sasha let out a cackle.

I laughed, shaking my head.

"Alright," Sasha clapped her hands. "Time to shoot. Let's get to work."