It’s my first time ever doing a magazine photo shoot, and to be honest, it’s not what I imagined. I know that magazines aren’t exactly thriving at the moment—I didn’t expect to share a private plane to a secluded beach in the Maldives with Pat McGrath as she did my makeup—but I expected a tiny bit more than this. The photographer, reporter, and I are stuffed into what probably used to be a storage room. There are scuff marks on the walls and a mishmash of camera equipment and clothes strewn about. My hair and makeup were done by a woman summoned from the beauty editor’s phone via Glamsquad. My outfit is sweet, though—the fashion editor was waiting with a rack of clothes for me when I arrived, and I got to choose. I asked why everything was white, gray, and silver, and she shrugged like it was obvious: “To play up your engagement ring, you know?” I slipped into charcoal gray leather leggings, a whisper-thin white camisole, and a white jacket dripping in silver zippers. This morning, I had spent a half hour debating which accessories to bring. Ultimately, I went with my signature bangles, hammered silver hoops, and a simple diamond pendant on a silver chain, all from Brooklyn Jewels: they create a pretty effect without stealing focus from my ring.

The photographer, a petite woman with an intricate floral tattoo snaking up one arm, looks up from her camera. “Can you adjust your hand? Move it onto your thigh again?”

Oh. Right. She had suggested that I casually rest my left hand on my thigh so that my engagement ring is visible in photos. I move my hand. The photographer smiles. Click.

I am not a model; I never dreamed of being a model; I never even fantasized for a moment during a particularly juicy rerun of America’s Next Top Model, I swear. And yet, something about this whole ordeal—the photo shoot, the interview, the office outside full of editors who can create a trend or launch a brand’s success with a single story—feels inevitable.