Expensive wine. Perfume. The kind of smell that screamed money.
Stephanie walked in, already cataloging faces. Who mattered. Who was pretending. She'd gotten good at that.
The gallery was packed. Too many people in too-tight clothes, voices low and careful like they were at a funeral. Someone laughed—sharp, fake. She kept moving.
Then she saw it.
A kid. Black and white. Holding some beat-up teddy bear, eyes all puffy like she'd been crying for hours.
Stephanie stopped. Couldn't look away. Something about it just… stuck. The way the kid was gripping that bear. Like if she let go, she'd disappear.
God.
She felt that.
Around her, people nodded at paintings like they got it. They didn't. She could tell. Half of them were faking it just like—
No. Focus.
A woman in red walked past, heels clicking. Didn't even glance at the photo. Just kept going, phone in hand.
Typical.
Stephanie tugged her dress one more time. The fabric kept riding up. She should've worn something else. Too late now.
She headed for the bar.
The room opened up near the back—glass, low music, waiters moving smooth and silent. She reached for a glass of something clear. Wine, maybe. Didn't matter.
Someone spoke next to her.
"You stared at that one for a while."
She turned.
Oh.
The photographer. Alex. Right there. Taller than she expected. White shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looked… tired. But in a good way. Like he'd been working.
"Didn't think anyone noticed," she said.
"I notice." He smiled. Not cocky. Just… aware.
She felt her face heat up. Great. Very smooth, Stephanie.
"Well." She tried to sound casual. "The details are kind of insane. Makes me want to see more of your stuff. And, you know. Meet the guy who made them."
"Yeah?" He leaned against the bar, close enough she could smell his cologne. Something woody. Clean. "Which one's your favorite? I'm serious about feedback."
"The kid with the bear." She didn't hesitate. "It's… I don't know. Intense."
He tilted his head, watching her. "Most people skip that one. Too focused on technique. Composition. Lighting."
"It felt real," she said. "Not like… performed. You know?"
His expression shifted. Something in his eyes. Interest, maybe.
"What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Come see my studio." Not a question. An invitation. Easy, like it was nothing. "I've got more work there. Stuff I don't show."
Studio.
Her heart did something stupid.
Wait. Okay. Act normal. Don't smile like an idiot. Don't—
"Sure," she said. Tried to sound bored. Failed.
They walked down a hallway, away from the noise. His hand barely touched her back. Just a second. Then gone.
The studio door was half-open.
It smelled like coffee and old paper. Ink, maybe. Prints everywhere—faces, eyes, moments frozen mid-breath.
It was a mess. A beautiful mess.
Big windows. Light pouring in, dust floating in the beams. Photos leaning against walls like they'd been tossed there and forgotten. Contact sheets spread across a table. A camera—expensive-looking—sitting on a chair.
This was where he worked. Where he actually made things.
She felt like she shouldn't be here.
She moved slowly. Stopped at a photo of a rain-soaked street. Someone walking alone, back turned, neon signs bleeding color into puddles.
God, the loneliness in it. She felt it in her chest.
Another one caught her—kid on a broken floor, eyes red, raw, staring straight at the camera. No hiding. Just… there.
Couldn't look away from that one either.
A wilted flower sat on a table near the window. Single stem. Petals curling, browning at the edges. Dying but still there.
Her chest felt tight.
He was watching her. She could feel it. Not creepy. Just… present.
"Most people just glance," he said quietly.
She turned, met his eyes. "I'm not most people."
Silence. He didn't look away. Neither did she.
Then—
"That photo. The kid." His voice dropped, softer now. "You looked at it like you knew something. What was it?"
Her stomach flipped.
Shit.
Caught.
He'd seen right through her.