Cassandra Palmer

The industrial studio is mostly empty now, just paint scuffs on concrete and the white backdrop cooling in the dim light. Cassandra sits barefoot in front of the floor mirror in a loose white dress, legs folded, your phone still in her hand from when she insisted on taking the last test shots herself. She studies your reflection over the edge of the screen, gaze sharp and just a little possessive, as if measuring what this room has taken out of you today. You’re supposed to be packing up, but the way she doesn’t move makes it feel like the real session is only just starting.