Lunch with Iris and Kate

By the time I pull into the underground lot off 55th, I’ve already stopped at the bank. The deposit slip’s still warm in my pocket, a small white receipt with six figures now digitized into my checking account like magic.

I glance at the number again before I kill the engine.

It still looks wrong.

Like it belongs to someone else.

I shake it off, smooth the front of my polo, run a quick hand through my hair in the rearview, and step out. The warm smell of butter and broth hits me the moment I open the door to La Bonne Soupe. Garlic. Herbs. Caramelized onions.

Inside, the hum of quiet conversation and clinking glasses. The lighting is soft and flattering, half natural, half intent.

Kate and Iris are already seated by the window, tucked into a small bistro table, mid-conversation. They don’t see me right away.

“…the Women of Marvel shoot was what really did it,” Iris is saying, swirling her cosmo absently. “That’s when we got snatched up by the advertising firm we’re at now.”

Kate leans in, eyes wide. “And Zoe suggested you?”

Iris nods. “The rest was history.”

That’s my cue. I slide into view, and they both look up.

“Three years,” I say casually as I approach the table. “Weve’ve been there three years.”

Iris smirks. “Glad you could join us, Joe.”

She scoots her chair slightly to make space for me. I drop into the seat, the crisp linen napkin already folded across the empty plate in front of me. A second later, a server appears like they’d been waiting for me the whole time.

“I got you the lunch special,” Iris says, beating me to it. “French onion soup, steak frites au poivre, and Grand Marnier crème brûlée.”

A mojito is set before me. Pink. Cold. Garnished with a slap of mint and a wedge of watermelon. I take a sip, it's light on the rum, tart and refreshing. Just how I like it.

“Perfect choice,” I murmur, nodding to Iris.

She lifts her glass without breaking eye contact. “It’s what I do.”

“I need to bring Emily here when she gets back,” I say.

“Already got you a reservation,” she answers, not missing a beat. “Day after the office shoot. Window table.”

Kate laughs, her eyes twinkling behind her oversized sunglasses. “Your assistant is something else.”

I glance at Iris. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Kate leans forward, placing a manila folder on the table between us. Her nails click softly against the cardboard as she adjusts it.

“So,” she says, her tone shifting subtly. “Small hiccup with the design.”

I tilt my head. “Company didn’t go for it?”

She exhales. “Not exactly. They still want the photo shoots. But there’s a little… hesitation about going that far.”

I nod slowly. I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I’ve worked in this industry long enough to know when something feels too bold for primetime. I open my mouth to pivot.

But a nudge under the table from Iris’s toe hits my ankle. Just enough pressure to say wait.

Kate continues. “However… they passed the mock-ups to a few other contacts. And one of them had a better idea.”

She flips open the folder. Inside: mock-ups of the perfume bottle, some of my risqué sketches, concept notes with logos I don’t recognize at first… until I do.

Penthouse.

Adam & Eve.

Hustler.

Wait.

My eyes flick up. “Porn companies?”

Kate doesn’t flinch. “Adult production and marketing firms, yes.”

I glance down again. There’s a list of ad campaign tiers. Pop-ups. Banner ads. Interactive embeds.

“They saw your designs. And they were blown away,” she says. “They don’t want to change them. They want to expand them.”

“Expanded how?” I ask.

“Well…” she flashes me a grin. “They’re offering to co-fund the ad campaign in exchange for exclusive versions of the shoots with a certain... twist." I tilt my head, letting her continue. "No censorship. Full body. Full intimacy. Full sensuality. They said, and I quote, ‘Let the artist go as far as he wants.’”

Iris finally speaks again. “They want to see what happens when you’re unchained.”

I lean back, absorbing it. I think about what I did in the domain. What I shot. How I posed Kate’s double. The tightness of her body. The sheen of sweat on her inner thighs. The way she spread herself for me beneath the sun. The flash drive is still in my desk drawer, holding proof I can shoot the erotic with as much artistry as the iconic.

Kate’s watching me closely. “Listen, I’m still in. But I'd rather you be behind the camera. The main company gets the TV-friendly versions. And these guys? They get the raw cuts.”

I glance at Iris. She’s smiling that knowing smile. That smirk that says wait for it.

Kate grins, almost giddy. “Oh... and you'd have final cut.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard her,” Iris says, sipping her cosmo like it’s a victory cigar. “No notes. No edits. Final cut is yours. What you shoot, what you deliver, how you deliver it... it’s all under your control.”

I laugh once, sharp and involuntary. “Jesus.”

Kate squeezes my wrist. “This is going to be huge.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah… I think we can make this work.”

The server returns with our food. The soup arrives first—bubbling with melted gruyère, the toasted baguette underneath soft but still holding structure. The steak follows—rare, crusted with crushed peppercorn, the fries golden and thin.

It’s indulgent. Rich. Perfect.

Like everything else in my life lately.

We eat and talk contracts. The new campaign will split into two lanes: mainstream and explicit. Both pay my usual rates... but the adult lane falls under the freelance option of my contract... as does the monetization from ad traffic we’ll be earning. The firm doesn't get a cut of that.

Click-throughs. Impressions. Subscriptions.

Cha-ching.

As we settle into dessert... flaming orange liquor cracking the sugar crust of the crème brûlée, I realize something.

I’m not nervous.

Not overwhelmed.

Not hesitant.

I’m ready.

Kate raises her glass. “To pushing the line.”

I lift mine. “To erasing it.”

We clink.

And my mind’s already sketching. Already posing. Already framing shots in my head I’ve never dared explore in daylight.

Until now.