Beautiful Savages
by Julie Capulet
~ Prologue ~
Cedrik Hugo was apoplectic. Photographing beautiful people was his chosen profession and one he’d clawed his way up every conceivable rung of the brutal dog-eat-dog fashion photography ladder to achieve. You didn’t reach the pinnacle of your game without being able to control a trying situation. And he had every intention of controlling this one, as uncooperative as his models might be.
He still had to pinch himself sometimes.
He was photographing arguably the five most glamorous people in the world, to be featured on the cover of City, the trendiest magazine in publication.
Cedrik congratulated himself on a daily basis and reminded himself now of his shitty beginnings as the youngest of eight in a squalid tenement row house in pre-trendy Hackney. He hadn’t achieved his stellar success by kowtowing to a gaggle of overprivileged ego-maniacs like the Savage heirs.
Yet kowtow he must. Today, he would grovel, plead and beg on bended knee if he had to. Anything to get his million-dollar shot.
“Towards me, Athena,” he crooned. “Give me approachability. Think less haughty and more haute.”
Athena Savage glanced at Cedrik as though he was a bug she would have enjoyed squashing under the heel of her diamond-encrusted Jimmy Choo.
Gently but firmly: “Apollo. Please. Take off the sunglasses. Show the world those to-die-for blue eyes.”
Apollo made no move to take off his aviators. Instead, he flashed Cedrik—or more accurately, Cedrik’s mousy assistant, Mira—a slow, cocky smile, causing her to giggle breathlessly. A vein in Cedrik’s forehead visibly pulsated.
The magazine was scheduled to go to press in less than a week and the Savages simply weren’t cooperating. They seemed more intent on sabotaging Cedrik’s perfect cover than performing for him. Admittedly, every shot was very nearly perfect when it came to photographing the five Savage siblings, whose combined wealth exceeded the gross national product of several of the smaller European principalities. Possibly some of the bigger ones, too.
Cedrik didn’t care. They would obey his direction if he had to wrestle them into place with his bare, small, sweaty hands. It was already being called the hottest cover of the year and damned if he wasn’t going to nail this one. It would be the crowning glory of his already-illustrious career.
Agitatedly, he snapped his fingers at several of his underlings. One adjusted the drape of Athena’s dress. Another fluttered around Eros, smoothing an errant curl into place. A third touched up Artemis’s already-flawless lip gloss. Ares scowled as someone brushed a speck off his bespoke jacket.
Cedrik acrobatically maneuvered himself around the grand porch of the Savages’ Hamptons summer home, clicking maniacally.
It was one of five residences owned by the family, Cedrik knew. All of them had been inherited, he reminded himself. If he was going to earn himself a Hamptons “cottage”—which he fully intended on doing—he needed this shot to be fucking amazing.
The house was ridiculous. An enormous, rambling mansion full of generations’ worth of heirloom furniture, first edition books and priceless paintings. Like the house itself, the furnishings were an eclectic mix of vintage charm and modern design. A Boca do Lobo sofa was flanked by mahogany end tables that had once belonged to the Queen. Several Picassos hung next to a Hirst, a Basquiat, a Kahlo, a Schnabel (overrated, in Cedrik’s opinion) and a wonderfully lewd Haring, to name just a few. Knick-knacks and sculptures formerly owned by some Han dynasty emperor, Abraham Lincoln, Grace Kelly and Elvis sat side by side, quietly exuding a complex, bygone power that further illuminated the opulence of the Savages’ luxurious lifestyle.
Damn them.
Cedrik was as in awe of the family as every other mere mortal. Secretly, he wanted to know them. Feverishly, he wished he was one of them. The Savages occupied that enviable stratosphere of society that kept the public riveted. And sold magazines like nobody’s business.
The cover shot would be of the five Savage heirs, posing coolly on the stately patio of their dead grandmother’s house, the Atlantic Ocean behind them a brilliant turquoise as though tinted specifically for the occasion.
At Cedrik’s insistence, the five Savages wore white. He’d contacted all the top designers and invited them to send outfits custom-made for the shoot. Then he’d personally selected his favorites.
Ares was the oldest. Black-haired and regal, his white Armani suit was perfectly tailored to showcase his status as a billionaire businessman and one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Ares had taken over as CEO of his father’s companies. Hedge fund manager, internet entrepreneur, real estate mogul and Hollywood studio executive, all at the age of twenty-seven. He was deeply tanned, barefoot and had his hands in his pockets. His steel-gray eyes conveyed a look of arrogance and untouchable power.
Apollo, second-oldest, was the wild-child musician of the family. His albums were downloaded by the millions and his stadium shows sold out within hours. Now, he was seated astride his Ducati, wearing only a pair of off-white leather Balmain motorcycle pants (enhanced with divine ancient Greek-style suede detailing by the adorable Olivier Rousteing himself). His dark hair was lightly windblown. His chest and arms were gracefully muscular and artfully tattooed. His eyes, when he briefly slid his sunglasses up to pop a bottle of Moët—not his first of the day—matched the turquoise sea. Apollo’s body was as buff and ideal as the classical god he was named for.
Then there was Athena. Privately, Cedrik thought she was the most exquisite of them all. Athena Savage was a bestselling novelist whose books, full of sex and fantasy, sold like hotcakes. They hit the sweet spot between literary credibility and mass-market gold. She got invited to all the events of the literati in-crowd, who marveled at her sales numbers and coveted her success. Her sideline City column, which chronicled some of the day-to-day highlights of her heiress lifestyle, had been moved to page three of the magazine due to its popularity.
Now, her hair spilled down her back in a river of expensively-enhanced honey-gold. A sequined goddess-style gown (Ralph, the genius) showed off her yoga-perfected body. Her slim, toned arms were decorated with curling, golden cuffs shaped like snakes with ruby eyes. Around her neck she wore one of the family heirlooms: a 40-carat diamond necklace that glinted in the summer sun.
She was ravishing.
The youngest of the brothers, Eros, was equally so. His Tom Ford soft-worked suede tennis shorts were tight, brief and left little to the imagination. It was clear that Eros Savage had lucked out in every conceivable category. Reclined on a chaise lounge, his long, lean body was spectacular. Eros had blond, cavalier curls and was one of the most physically beautiful human beings a person was ever likely to meet. On the strength of his name, connections and beauty alone, he got cast in a Steven Spielberg movie at the age of sixteen and was now one of the most bankable stars in Hollywood. He was mobbed wherever he went, from the red carpet events to the hot spots of the New York club scene.
He’d shown up late for the shoot—which had almost given Cedrik a coronary—arriving by helicopter from his cameo appearance in the latest Coen Brothers film, where he’d been paid six million dollars for three days of “work.” Cedrik had seen all his films and personally felt Eros’s acting was the tiniest bit amateur. Forgivable, perhaps, since the camera loved Eros Savage. Just like everyone else did.
Life was unfair, but Cedrik was determined to tip fate’s scales in his own direction through sheer grit. Which was why he was going to get the perfect photograph or die trying ...
