Boudoir Shootings

The villa's marble clung to her bare feet. Cold. A dead house. Valentina stood before the floor-to-ceiling window. Milan stretched below—a city of busy ghosts. She was the perfect wife. A thing. Useful. Then useless.Alessandro's indifference was no longer neglect; it was a cold blade pressed against her throat. She barely breathed, careful not to cut herself. Her reflection stared back: perfect, sterile. Perfection was her cage. Indifference was war.She picked up her phone. The screen lit her lifeless face. She wasn't looking for a lover. She was looking for a name. Sophia. A photographer.The price of a boudoir session. The price of a life. It wasn't a job. It was one cage sliding into another.Sophia had just sold herself. Valentina had just bought. The work was done. The obsession was only beginning.