Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Tom
I’m forty minutes deep into adjusting the northwest shot when the calendar notification detonates across my screen.
Subject line: Morgan + Bennett — Visual Narrative Review.
Flagged urgent.
My hand stills on the mouse.
The pedestrian flow line from the northeast corner is off by maybe three pixels, just enough that the eye doesn’t track cleanly from street level down to the water. Nobody will consciously notice it, but everyone will feel it. I’ve been chasing that correction all morning.
My coffee has gone cold. The monitor throws harsh blue light across my desk while traffic rumbles three floors below.
I glance back at the invite.
It’s probably just a status check. Fifteen minutes of Sam Morgan updating the Board on timelines, maybe flagging a few angles she wants expedited. I could summarize my piece in an email after they wrap.
Then I notice the timestamp.
The meeting is already in progress. And the Developer is on the call.
I close my eyes, a heavy knot forming in my stomach. Developers don't join routine status checks.
I hit save on the file, letting the three-pixel adjustment disappear into the image processing queue. I straighten up in my leather chair, brace myself for corporate micromanagement, and click join.
The energy is entirely wrong the second my camera turns on.
Three Board reps lean into their screens, talking over each other. A decision’s already been made, and this part is apparently just the announcement.
Sam's tile appears in the bottom corner of the grid. She is sitting perfectly still, her shoulders rigidly square in a dark blazer. Her hair is pulled back, but one errant, wavy piece has escaped, curling right against the sharp line of her jaw. She looks immaculate. She looks furious.
I realize I am staring at the curve of her neck and immediately reach for the mouse to mute my microphone.
"Tom, glad you could make it," the Developer says, his voice carrying a warm, practiced authority. "We've been reviewing the latest image set."
"Great." I force my tone to remain easy and professional. "Happy to answer any questions."
One of the Board reps shifts forward into her camera's frame. Her name is Margaret—silver hair, sharp suit, the kind of executive who doesn't waste time on pleasantries.
"We don't have questions," Margaret says smoothly. "We have a proposal."
In the bottom corner tile, Sam's jaw tightens—just barely, but enough for me to catch it.
"The sight lines you've been capturing," the Developer continues, "the time-of-day sequences, the way you're framing connectivity instead of infrastructure—it's not just supporting the architecture. It's reframing the entire site."
I don't move.
"That's the goal," I say.
"Right. And it's working." He pauses.
Here it comes.
"Which is why we're moving the visuals to the front of the bid package."
My breath stops. Just for a second. Long enough that I have to pull air in deliberately, carefully, so the microphone doesn't catch it.
"Front edge," Margaret clarifies. She's looking directly at the camera now, directly at me. "The images open the presentation. Design intent follows."
Images first. Architecture second.
"Sam will lead the design portion," the Developer says. His tone is settled. Decided. Like we've already agreed and this is just the walkthrough.
"You'll explain the images, why you framed them the way you did, the lighting choices, what they show investors about the site. Weekly presentations. Live. In person."
I watch Sam's tile. Her lips press flat. Just for a second. Then her face goes neutral again.
"Thursdays," the Developer adds. "Nine AM. We'll start next week."
I watch Sam's tile. Her eyes flick up to her webcam. For one fraction of a second, she is looking directly through the lens, straight at me.
It isn't a glare. It is a shared, horrified realization. We are trapped together. My hand drops to the mouse, my fingers locking around it in a rigid, white-knuckled grip.
If I don't say something, they'll take my silence for agreement.
Redirect. Reframe as respecting Sam's authority.
"I can put the slides together," I say, keeping my tone easy. "Pull the key shots, add notes if anyone needs context. Sam can present, she understands the project better than anyone. I'll stay available if questions come up."
I make it sound like efficiency. Like the room doesn’t need two voices.
The truth is simpler. I do the work. Then I walk away. That was the plan.
I watch Sam's tile and wait. This is her opening. All she has to do is take it.
Her shoulders shift.
Just slightly.
Like she's weighing whether trying to regain more ownership is worth debating with the Developer.
Come on, Sam. Take it.
I walked into this job expecting Sam to carry the presentation. I just supply the photography. Nobody asking me to defend visual choices in front of investors six months from now when someone's trying to kill the budget.
She's not objecting.
She's not saying I can handle this alone or Tom's right, we don't need two voices.
I lean forward. I'm ready to unmute, to support her if she pushes back.
Sam comes off mute.
Finally.
"Tom's photography makes a compelling argument for this project."
Her jaw is set. Not relieved. Not victorious.
She's trapped. The same way I am.
When the conversation shifts into logistics, I stop listening. Words like templates, shared folders, and branding guidelines blur into corporate white noise.
I start running exit scenarios instead.
I could claim the schedule doesn't work. Cite conflicting commitments. Another project. Travel. Something polite and professional that gets me out of this before it starts.
Then the calendar notification slides into the corner of my screen.
Morgan + Bennett Visual Review — Recurring. Thursdays. 9:00 AM.
The decision’s already locked in.
I stare at the calendar while someone keeps talking about stakeholder expectations. My hand tightens around the mouse.
When the call ends, the video tiles blink out one by one. Sam's disappears last.
I sit in the blue glow of the monitor, the image I spent all morning perfecting still open behind the meeting window.
This isn't a shoot I can finish and walk away from.
It's a recurring role.
Careful what you wish for.
***
Six months ago, I got dragged to an industry reception at a waterfront venue.
Halfway through the cocktail hour, the room went quiet as a woman in a sharp gray suit stepped in front of the projection screen.
Standing in the back with a warm beer in my hand, I couldn't look away. I had watched the way she moved, the passion in her voice when she talked about the way light interacts with steel. She hadn't been sterile. She had been brilliant.
When my sister leaned over and whispered that I should work with someone like her, I nodded.
Someday.
I filed her name away, Samantha, and spent the rest of the night imagining what it would be like to shoot a project she designed. What it would be like to match her passion with my lens.
The harsh blue light of my monitor glares back at me.
I am working with her.
But there is no organic synergy. There is only a corporate cage.
I sit in the quiet of my apartment, dissecting the absolute nightmare that just occurred on that screen. I didn't just lose my autonomy; I got drafted into a weekly, mandatory performance. I have to stand in a boardroom and clinically justify my creative instincts on a schedule.
And the architect, whose work I spent six months admiring from afar isn't my visionary partner, she is my reluctant warden. I wanted this. I wished for this. And now I have it with a leash attached.
I lean back, the leather of my chair creaking loudly. My coffee is cold. The calendar sidebar pulses relentlessly. Thursdays. 9:00 AM. Recurring.
My phone lights up on the desk with a new text message.
Pre-meeting reviews will be in person. Morgan + Bennett office. Conference room. First one's Wednesday. Don't be late
I read it twice. The demanding, controlling architect is back. The visionary from six months ago is locked behind a color-coded calendar.
Wednesday. In person. Her office.
I wanted to work with Samantha Morgan.
Careful what you wish for.