Vanessa
Driving like a pro is one of the few things my uncle allowed me to learn under his watch. That, and photography. In his words:
"It'll be useful to your husband if one day his driver is injured and he has to handle other things. You knowing how to drive like that."
Thank you, psychopath. Who would've told you that the only skill I was allowed to learn with you would be the one that let me escape you —I think, as I enjoy the feeling of freedom behind the wheel and watch the girls connect a little more in a casual conversation about their lives.
We arrive at the record label building. It's modern, with a mirrored glass façade that reflects the sky like it's trying to compete with it. At the entrance, there's an abstract sculpture that looks like a microphone fused with wings. The lobby is full of light, with white marble floors and a reception desk that looks like it came out of a minimalist design magazine. I assume the guys arrived a while ago, so we don't look for them—we just head up as fast as possible.
I reach the floor where I'll have my interview and speak with the receptionist, a young woman with a pleasant look, perfect nails, and a smile that seems rehearsed. They call me in almost immediately. The girls stay outside, giving me signals of support and encouragement. Okay, let's go. You've got this.
Inside, I'm greeted by a middle-aged man with a classic-casual style. His name is Leo, the band's manager. He introduces me to another girl who's apparently also a candidate for the contract they're offering. He asks me to wait while he goes into another room with her. The girl gives me a look—like she's judging my style and, apparently, my soul.
Ten minutes later, she walks out with an air of "I already beat you, bitch."
Me? As always, doubting my abilities, I just watch her without showing that I care. But inside, I already feel defeated.
Leo comes out and asks me to enter. He asks a few basic questions, then tells me the band will make the final decision. He asks for my social profile. Truth is, I keep a low profile because of my family. Even though I have a page with millions of followers, there's nothing that links it directly to me. I share it. He nods, checks it briefly, and asks me to step out and wait until the decision is made.
While I wait outside the office, my heart pounds and my mind drifts for a moment to that first time I held a camera in my hands. I remember the subtle tremble in my fingers when, at just nine years old, I hid behind the backyard garden to press the shutter for the first time. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for—I just felt an urgent need to capture the way light played with the leaves, to keep that moment as a tiny secret that belonged only to me. When I saw the developed photo, even though it was blurry and clumsy, I felt a pure, almost clandestine joy. Something that bloomed just for me, like a spark of life in the silence of that huge, cold house.
At first, I took photos in secret, making sure my uncle didn't notice. But he eventually found out one afternoon while going through my things and discovered the roll of my first images. I thought he'd punish me or forbid me from doing it again, but he just looked at me with that natural indifference of his and said that if I wanted to waste time on that, I should at least learn to do it well. To him, photography was nothing more than an innocent hobby—something that, in his logic, couldn't threaten the control he had over my life. He never showed interest in my photos, never asked why I took them. He just allowed me to continue, convinced it was another one of my harmless quirks.
What my uncle never knew—and still doesn't suspect—is that much later, I opened an online profile under the pseudonym Photo Rose. There, behind a carefully constructed identity and anonymity, I share my photos with a massive audience that admires my work without knowing my face or my real story. The account became famous, with followers who analyze every image looking for clues, but no one has ever figured out who I really am. That secret is mine. And every time I upload a photo, I feel the delicious vertigo of showing my truth in the light while still remaining hidden—like that little girl who, camera in hand, faced the world from the shadows for the first time.
Shawn
After singing like idiots in the car at full volume—and probably injuring our voices a bit, which will earn us a scolding later—we arrive with renewed energy. We get out of the car laughing, and I instinctively look for Wenn's car in the parking lot. Nothing. The girls haven't arrived yet. I'm a little worried, since they left earlier, but I file it away in the mental drawer labeled "things I can't control right now" and switch to professional mode. Today we have an important meeting about promotion and marketing.
We enter the label, greet everyone with our usual friendliness, and Maeson—our unofficial but emotionally indisputable leader—heads straight to Leo's office. Some might think he likes the spotlight, but those of us who know him understand he does it from the heart. He takes care of us like we're family. And that, even if we don't say it much, is felt.
Leo and Maeson come out a few minutes later. We exchange quick greetings and head to the meeting room. Today we're choosing our future Band Photographer & Media Manager. They leave two portfolios on the table. Leo goes to interview the candidates while we review the material.
My throat still raspy from the vehicular concert, I'm the first to speak:
"Did you guys see Liora Skye's photos? Everything's super pretty, but I don't know… I feel like if we end up on her page, she'll make us pose with detox juices and unicorn filters. Three million followers is a lot, but do we really need photos promoting cereal?"
Maeson gives me that look of complicity he uses when I'm in clown mode, but he still takes me seriously. He wants something real. I know that. Music has to be felt. So do the photos. He picks up Chiara Rosetti's portfolio. Opens it like he already knows what he'll find.
"This is something else," he says, in a voice that sounds more intimate than professional. "There are stories here."
Konnor, who can't help himself, jumps in:
"Does anyone know if she's really Colombian with that name? No one knows who she is—her face isn't anywhere. That's cool, I dig the mysterious vibe."
I laugh, because we're all on the same wavelength.
"So we prefer the phantom photographer. I'd rather have a story behind each photo than another facial cream ad. Plus, she has 10 million followers."
Zane, who's been quiet, leans toward the portfolio and points to a signature in the corner of an image:
"Guys… her photos have that signature, CR. Like the beach photo Vanessa showed us."
Silence. The kind that isn't planned, but says everything.
Maeson freezes. Doesn't speak for a second. But his expression shifts. You can see it in his jaw, in how he grips the edge of the portfolio. Like he just got hit with a jolt of electricity.
"I feel like we need someone who sees beyond what happens on stage," he says, without looking up. "And if this photographer turns out to be our mystery photographer… it's perfect."
Konnor laughs, half incredulous:
"Vanessa is Chiara Rosetti? What's up with that name?"
Leo walks in at that exact moment, like the universe has movie timing.
"Her full name is Chiara Vanessa García Rosetti. Italian mother, Colombian father. She uses Chiara Rosetti for her photography. Do you want to meet her?"
We all look at each other. No debate. No vote.
"Yes," we say, almost in unison.
Leo smiles and goes to call her.
Maeson keeps staring at the door. Says nothing. But I know him. And what he's feeling isn't surprise.
It's certainty.
It's longing.
It's fear.
And as we wait, I realize this band is about to change.
Not because of the music.
But because of what's about to walk through that door.