Chapter 5

He reached for the container. But Wendy stepped forward first.

"Let me serve it for you."

She probably just wanted to break the tension, but she moved too fast. Her sleeve caught the edge of a document box.

A clatter.

The box hit the floor and everything inside spilled out.

They were handmade photo albums.

I had spent three full months rebuilding them from Dylan's discarded negatives, turning them into a proper portfolio.

I had originally planned to give them to him. I hoped they might remind him of why he fell in love with photography in the first place.

But that day came and went, and I never got the chance to bring them out.

Afterward, I had just left them at the studio.

Now the photos were scattered across the floor.

Wendy, trying to catch the falling container, stepped directly onto them.

A stiletto heel punched straight through one of the prints.

"Oh—"

Wendy let out a sharp cry. She still couldn't catch the container.

Scalding oatmeal splashed out and landed across the top of her foot.

"That burns," she whimpered. Her eyes filled with tears instantly. She bent down, clutching her foot.

Dylan shoved the table aside and yanked Wendy up.

"Where did it burn? Let me see."

He glanced at the container, then at Wendy's foot, his face dark.

"Lily, I'm not blaming you."

"But couldn't you have knocked before walking in? None of this would have happened."

I looked at the mess on the floor. My voice came out completely flat.

"She knocked it over herself."

He helped Wendy to a seat, frowning at the scattered photos.

I watched his concern for her, and felt something absurd move through me.

I quietly crouched down and picked up the photos one by one.

Then I dropped them all into the trash can beside me.

The photography exhibition was set for that Saturday.

It was the largest show Dylan had put on since opening his studio.

Three months ago, when he handed me the planning documents, he pointed to the first item on the event rundown.

"Lily, the featured speaker slot — that's yours, no question."

"This studio wouldn't be where it is today without four years of your support."

I'd turned down every company obligation to hold that commitment.

I helped him secure the venue, coordinate with media, and rewrote every press release line by line.

Saturday morning.

A large banner stood at the entrance to the gallery.

I stopped walking. My eyes dropped to the line near the bottom.

The space where my name had been listed as featured speaker was covered by a sticker.

It now read: Wendy.

I looked at it for a moment.

Then walked inside.

Dylan was directing workers adjusting the lighting. When he saw me, he walked over quickly.

His gaze swept over me briefly and his brow tightened.

"You made it. Head to the back lounge and rest. The ribbon cutting is about to start."

I looked him in the eye.

"The name on the banner. What happened?"

Dylan paused.

"The investors brought it up this morning at the last minute. I was in the middle of dealing with the press and didn't have time to talk to you first."

"Lily, I know this isn't fair to you. But we can't have anything go wrong today. Once it's all over, I'll personally thank you in front of everyone."

I didn't respond.

I walked past him into the gallery.

At one of the display stands hung a large print of a woman's silhouette.

The girl in the photo was wearing a white dress, standing on the rocks by the ocean.

The light and shadow were handled perfectly. Something cold and mysterious breathed through the image.

That was from two years ago, when Dylan and I took a trip to the coast. He had captured it in a spontaneous shot.

At the time, he said it was the most soulful photograph he had ever taken.

I looked at the label below the print.

Title: Muse.

The model field was blank. In its place, a single line of text.