Villainess Marked For Her Alpha-Chapter 60: Olle Wants Me to Be Her Model

"Hello..." I waved hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper as I set my mug down with a faint clink, the ceramic cool against my suddenly sweaty palms.

Why was she looking at me like this?

Olle’s head tilted, her specs glinting like polished steel as she raked me head to toe, dark eyes narrowing behind them.

My simple white shirt—light cotton clinging a bit from the office heat—suddenly felt too thin under that stare, the top button straining just enough to betray my quickened breath. "You look familiar. Where’ve I seen you?"

"That’s my partner—co-owner of Helly Paws," Hellen cut in smoothly, her blonde ponytail swaying as she leaned forward, a protective edge sharpening those eyes.

Olle’s expression shifted, steel melting to intrigued silk, her rich contralto warming as she stepped closer—heels clicking authoritative on the linoleum. "You’re her." Recognition lit her face, sleek locs swaying like polished obsidian as she circled the desk, clipboard tucked under one arm.

"Can you not circle around me, please?" I asked.

My heart thudded; she moved like she owned the room, her perfume cutting through the AC’s hum. "You are the founder herself, weren’t you? Emily Leonhart. Those sketches? Genius. And curves like yours under that shirt? Perfect for the luxury line. Silk collars, cashmere sweaters draped on you, not some stick-figure hireling."

I blinked, heat flooding my cheeks, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt in my lap as my emerald eyes darted to Hellen for rescue.

A loose raven strand escaped my bun, tickling my flushed neck. "Me? Model? No, I’m just the designer, not photogenic—" Olle’s manicured hand sliced the air, silencing me mid-protest.

"Nonsense. On your feet—let’s see the lines." She snapped her fingers, poise unyielding as iron. Before I could sputter, Ollie made me raise my arms, examining properly.

Hellen said, "Ollie, the model will be in a minute—"

"Quiet, Hellen. I don’t care about your personal reasons. I am here for my model—one that would match my standards. Not some hippie, who doesn’t care about my time." Ollie gave a stern expression to Hellen.

Hellen clicked her tongue, her face darkening with every second. Did Hellen want to be a model too?

But Ollie ignored her as she continued examining me.

"See? Divine proportions," Olle declared, her rich voice approving as she stepped back, specs slipping down her nose while she jotted notes on her clipboard—curves, posture, all appraised like fine art.

"But—"

She tapped a manicured nail against her chin, locs shifting with a nod. "No buts. Silk scarf prototype around your neck, cashmere throw over those shoulders for the shot. Pets placed around you—pure luxury vibe for Paws & Couture. Then, we will click shots for your everyday line."

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, a stray raven curl slipping free from my bun to tease my burning neck. "Hellen, say something—please?"

"I don’t want everyone looking at Emily like she’s on display," Hellen snapped, her eyes flashing protective fire, arms tightening across her magenta shirt as she stepped half in front of me.

Olle’s specs caught the light, unamused. "Girl, I’ve known you since you were in diapers—doesn’t change facts. Unlike your ulterior motives, your mother was really my best friend." She turned towards me. "Hellen is your best friend, right?"

I nodded, "Yes, she is."

"I think my point has been proved."

"You are stepping over boundaries, Ollie."

"I did you a favour by coming here."

"That’s exactly why I’m saying this nicely," Hellen shot back, blonde ponytail lashing like a whip, her voice a low growl that filled the office.

Olle whirled to me, locs swaying sharp, dark eyes locking mine with ruthless promise. "Forget her. Model for me, Emily, and I guarantee Helly Paws explodes—front-page Paws & Couture, orders flooding in overnight. Your sketches, your vision, immortalized. Deal?"

The words hit like a lifeline—success, security, my dreams handed over on a silver platter. My fingers unclenched from my shirt hem, resolve hardening despite the flutter in my chest.

"Fine," I said, voice steadying as I rose, the chair scraping back. "I’ll do it."

Hellen snarled, "Emily! Don’t you dare!"

"It’s fine, Hellen. Let’s try, okay?"

"Emily! You are not allowed to do modelling for her! I forbid it!"

I shot Hellen a fierce glare, my emerald eyes blazing as my voice cut sharp through the tense office air. "You can’t control me, Hellen! I’m a grown woman with my own rights and choices—I’ll do what I want, okay? Don’t you dare make decisions for me ever again!"

Olle’s rich laugh rumbled approving, her dark eyes sparking behind her specs. "Good girl—I knew I saw fire in you."

I whipped toward her, chest heaving, fingers still clenched on my shirt hem. "I’ve never modelled. I’ll look ridiculous."

"You’re talking to the woman who’s shaped dozens of stars," Olle countered smooth, locs swaying as she closed the gap, clipboard set aside like discarded armour. "Trust the process: follow my directions, breathe natural, let those curves and that spark do the rest. You’ll own the lens."

"But will I really be good at this?" I asked, voice wavering despite my earlier fire, fingers tugging nervously at my shirt collar as Olle’s gaze held me pinned.

"With that face and body—curves that’d scramble any alpha’s instincts and leave omegas staring—you’ll do more than good," Olle purred, her dark eyes gleaming with professional hunger behind her specs. "I see a star in you already, Emily. Raw, unpolished fire."

"I don’t even know how to walk for cameras," I admitted, cheeks burning hotter, a loose raven curl sticking to my damp neck.

"No runway strut needed," she dismissed with a sleek locs flick, stepping back to appraise me afresh. "I sculpt naturals—real women, not plastic dolls. Move like you, breathe like you. The lens loves truth."

"Truth?" I echoed, my voice a mix of doubt and dawning hope, eyes searching Olle’s face as my fingers stilled on my shirt collar.

"Yes—truth," she affirmed, her rich contralto steady as bedrock, dark eyes locking mine with unshakeable certainty. "I promise you’ll be great, Emily. Too great. The camera strips away poses; it craves what’s real. You’ve got that in spades."

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