29. Chapter 28
Chapter 28
Rayne
I'm still in the middle of admin work that I’ve been using as a way of procrastination when a knock at the door startles me. Frowning, I glance at the clock on my computer screen. It's just past 2 p.m, and I don't have any photoshoots scheduled for a few days. Knox and River wouldn't knock—they seem to have an uncanny ability to materialize in my space whenever they please. A flutter of unease ripples through my stomach as I push back from my desk and make my way to the door.
The studio is quiet save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the muted sounds of traffic filtering in from outside. Afternoon sunlight streams through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floors. I pause for a moment, my hand hovering over the doorknob, before taking a deep breath and pulling it open.
To my surprise, Tash from the "Farewell to her Tah-Tahs" shoot stands on the other side, a sweet smile gracing her features. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing a flowy sundress that accentuates her curves beautifully. For a split second, I'm transported back to our photoshoot—the vulnerability in her eyes as she bared herself to my camera, the strength and courage radiating from her every pose.
"Tash!" I exclaim, genuine pleasure coloring my voice despite my initial wariness. "What a lovely surprise. Is everything okay?"
She nods, her smile widening. "Everything's great, Rayne. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?"
I shake my head, stepping back to invite her in. "Not at all. Please, come in."
As Tash crosses the threshold, I notice she's carrying a small, nondescript box in her hands. It's about the size of a coffee mug, wrapped in plain brown paper with no visible markings or labels.
"Oh," Tash says, following my gaze. "This was on your doorstep when I arrived. I thought I'd bring it in for you."
She holds out the box, and I take it with a murmured thanks. The package is surprisingly heavy for its size, and a chill runs down my spine as I set it on the nearby side table. My mind races with possibilities—could this be another "gift" from my mysterious stalker? Could Tash be lying, could she be my stalker? Or am I wrong to mistrust everyone now? Or perhaps something more innocuous, like supplies I'd forgotten I'd ordered?
Pushing aside my concerns for the moment, I turn my attention back to Tash. "Can I get you something to drink? Water, tea, coffee?"
"Water would be lovely, thank you," she replies.
As I move to the small kitchenette tucked in the corner of the studio, I watch Tash out of the corner of my eye. She wanders over to the backdrop where we did her shoot, her fingers trailing lightly over the soft fabric. There's a wistful look on her face.
I return with two glasses of water, handing one to Tash. As she takes it, I notice a slight tremor in her hand. The vibrant, laughing woman from our photoshoot seems subdued now, a shadow of melancholy dimming her bright eyes.
"How are you doing, Tash?" I ask gently, gesturing for her to take a seat on the plush velvet Chesterfield.
She settles onto the cushions, smoothing her sundress over her knees. The afternoon light catches the delicate gold charm on her necklace—a tiny pair of angel wings that glint as she moves. Tash takes a sip of water before answering, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the studio walls.
"I'm..." she begins, then pauses, seeming to search for the right words. "I'm nervous, to be honest. The surgery is next week, and it's all starting to feel very real."
My heart clenches at the vulnerability in her voice. I sit beside her, close enough to offer comfort but not so near as to invade her space. "The double mastectomy?" I ask softly.
Tash nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It's so different from the joyous, infectious laughter that filled the studio during her session. Back then, even in the face of such a life-altering procedure, she had radiated strength and hope. Now, I can see the weight of her impending surgery pressing down on her shoulders. "Yes. I know it's necessary, I know it's the right choice, but..." She trails off, her hand unconsciously moving to rest over her chest. "It's hard not to feel like I'm losing a part of myself."
"I thought I was prepared," she continues, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. "I've done all the research, talked to my doctors, even joined a support group and talked to survivors, even picked out some cute scarves for after. But now that it's so close... I'm terrified, Rayne." She trails off, blinking rapidly against the tears gathering in her eyes.
I squeeze her hand gently, offering what comfort I can. "It's okay to be scared, Tash. What you're facing is huge."
She nods, drawing in a shaky breath. "I know. I keep thinking about all the things I'll lose," she admits. "Not just my breasts, but... my hair, maybe. The feeling in my chest. The ability to breastfeed if I ever have kids." She takes a shuddering breath. "Part of my identity, in a way. It's just... I came here today because I wanted to thank you, Rayne. The proofing gallery you sent me... it was so beautiful."
Tash's eyes meet mine, brimming with unshed tears and heartfelt gratitude. "You have no idea how much it meant to me. To see myself through your lens, to feel beautiful and strong and... whole. Before everything changes."
Her words wash over me, and I feel my own eyes stinging with emotion. This is why I do what I do—to help women see their own beauty, their own strength. To capture moments of joy and empowerment that can sustain them through darker times. It’s not the first time I’ve had a client like Tash who needed the photoshoot for a deeper reason, and it won’t be the last.
Domestic violence survivors were also frequent clients, those who were so beaten down in the past that they no longer felt any self worth, or self confidence. And they affected me every single time.
Because they spoke to a part of my childhood that I could never forget. Of a mother I could never save.
"Oh, Tash," I murmur, shifting closer to her on the couch. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into me, a few tears finally spilling over. "I'm so glad the photos meant so much to you. You were absolutely radiant during that shoot."
We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments.
"I've been looking at them every day since you sent them," she confesses, her voice thick with emotion. "They remind me of who I am, of the beauty and power I possess, regardless of what changes my body goes through."
I feel a lump forming in my throat, touched beyond words by her revelation. "Tash, I-"
She shakes her head, cutting me off gently. "No, please. Let me say this." She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "What you did for me, the way you captured not just my body but my spirit... it's given me strength I didn't know I had. When I look at those photos, I see a woman who is brave, who is beautiful, who is whole—no matter what."
As Tash speaks, I watch in awe as she seems to rebuild herself before my eyes. The slump in her shoulders gradually disappears, replaced by a straightening of her spine. The tremor in her voice fades, giving way to a quiet but unmistakable strength. Her eyes, which had been clouded with fear and uncertainty, now shine with renewed determination.
"When I first got the diagnosis," Tash continues, her voice steady now, "I felt like my world was falling apart. But looking at those photos... it's like I can see the woman I want to be after all this is over. Strong. Resilient. Beautiful, scars and all."
She reaches into her purse, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. As she unfolds it, I recognize it as a print out of one of the images from her session—a stunning black and white image of her and her husband laughing, head thrown back, arms outstretched as if embracing the world as her husband embraces her.
"I'm going to keep this with me in the hospital," she says, tracing the outline of her image with a gentle finger. "To remind me of who I am, of the strength I have inside me. And that's thanks to you, Rayne."
My chest swells with pride and emotion. To know that my work has had such a profound impact on someone's life, to have played even a small role in helping Tash find her inner power—it's moments like these that remind me why I love what I do.
"Tash," I say, my voice thick with emotion, "you already had all that strength inside you. I just helped you see it."
She smiles at me, a full, radiant smile that lights up her entire face. "Maybe," she concedes. "But sometimes we need someone else to hold up a mirror, to show us what we can't see in ourselves. And that's what you did for me, Rayne. You held up a mirror and showed me my own power."
Tash stands then, smoothing down her sundress. There's a new energy about her, a quiet confidence that wasn't there when she first walked in. "I should go," she says. "I have a pre-op appointment to get to. But I wanted to come here first, to thank you in person."
I stand as well, and before I can react, Tash pulls me into a tight hug. She holds on perhaps a little too long, her arms wrapped firmly around me, her face buried in my shoulder. I can feel the slight tremor in her body, the way she clings to me as if drawing strength from the contact.
"Thank you," she whispers again, her voice muffled against my shirt. "For everything."
When she finally pulls away, there are tears in her eyes again, but they're accompanied by a smile—small, but genuine. I walk her to the door, feeling a mix of emotions swirling in my chest–pride, joy, a touch of sadness, but mostly a profound sense of purpose. This is the power of photography, of art, of truly seeing people.
"Good luck with your surgery, Tash," I say as we reach the threshold. “You’ve got this.”
She nods, a determined glint in her eye. "Yes, I do. And I can't wait until I can come back and have another photoshoot with you once I recover. To capture the new me, scars and all."
Her words fill me with warmth. "I'd be honored, Tash. Truly. You just let me know when you're ready."
I squeeze her hand one last time before she steps out into the afternoon sun. As I close the door behind her, I lean against it for a moment, letting out a long breath. These encounters always leave me feeling drained yet oddly energized, as if I've absorbed some of my client's emotions.
Intending to dive back into work, I turn back toward my desk, when my eyes land on the package again. It sits there innocuously, a plain brown cube that could contain anything. A chill runs down my spine as I approach it cautiously, my earlier paranoia creeping back in.
There's nothing on the wrapping, no return address or name to indicate its origin. Could it have been from Tash? Could she have lied? I shake my head, trying to dispel the creeping tendrils of suspicion. Not everyone is out to get me, I remind myself firmly.
I carefully unwrap the package, peeling back the plain brown paper to reveal a nondescript cardboard box beneath. My heart pounds in my chest as I lift the lid, bracing myself for whatever might be inside.