The photographer knew what she wanted in order to make the pictures work. Believable. Helen made a living out of selling such emotions. Sometimes it made her uneasy how easily, naturally, the fake looks of love and lust alike came to her. She must have sold it well if Menelaus, back in the days of old, thought she enjoyed her station as his wife and queen. At least enough not to leave him. Charm of Aphrodite or not, she had gone to Paris' door that fateful. She chose to agree to leave with him.
Now, standing in the embrace of Patroclus' best friend, going through the motions of pretend passion, didn't feel all that different. It worried her in past shoots, although it was significantly easier to ignore mortals. Helen had no interest in mortals. A Greek immortal, however, and someone from her time no less. It was part of the reason she fell for Patroclus. She had told him no lies, but she had also said someone like him, not necessarily him. It happened to work out that way.
When the last flash went off and the photographer declared that she had enough to work with, Helen cleared her throat and scooted back, taking her knee off the mattress where it had been placed for the pose. Tucking curling strands behind her ear, she avoided Achilles' eyes. "I suppose that's a wrap?"