The world knew Dollie as a doll. Porcelain skin, big brown eyes with lashes like fans, a cupid's-bow mouth. A Black girl who looked like a living collectible, and that irony sold millions. Pink Sunset dropped in March and broke records. The music videos showed Dollie staring down the lens while boys and girls in the crowd collapsed, hands outstretched, like she'd stolen their knees with a glance. Nobody knew about Elines. Elines was tall — five-eleven, broad-shouldered, soft-jawed. Wasian, her mother Korean, her father white. She was the first woman ever initiated into SOM, a crew that ran the West Coast underground. But when she came home, she cooked, she left jasmine incense burning, she traced Dollie's collarbone and asked, "You hungry?" in a voice that could stop traffic. They'd been married two years. No rings on the left hand. No one knew.   The photoshoot was Dollie's idea. "Just one," she said, lying across Elines's chest. "For the album booklet. A silhouette. A hand. Something." "Your manager will lose her mind." "My manager can choke."   The shoot happened on a closed set in a warehouse downtown. Dollie's manager, a ferret-faced woman named Rina, paced in the corner, chewing her nails. "This is a bad idea." "Then don't tell anyone," Dollie said, not looking at her.