Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I close the front door behind me, the sound of Anna and Lola's laughter still ringing in my ears. My sister's perfect twins and their perfect lives. I kick off my boots and hang my coat, feeling the weight of my life settle back on my shoulders after a few hours of pretending everything's fine.
The house is quiet except for the electronic gunfire and explosions coming from the living room. Reeves is sprawled on the couch, controller in hand, completely absorbed in his game.
I check on Liam first—sound asleep, having his usual after-school nap—that place wears him completely out, but in a good way.
He's sleeping right next to little Oliver, his sweet, constant companion.
It's so freaking cute, I have the urge to call Reeves over to see, but Reeves is not as sentimental as I am.
I stand in the doorway of the living room, watching Reeves for a moment. His brow furrowed in concentration, fingers rushing over the controller. The words I need to say feel stuck in my throat.
"Reeves, we need to talk."
He doesn't look up. "In a minute. Almost done with this level."
"It's important." My voice comes out stronger than I expected.
He sighs dramatically, pauses the game, and looks up. "What?"
I perch on the arm of the sofa. “I’m calling Caine… what do I tell him?”
His foot hits the coffee table with a crack. “Fucking Caine.”
“We need to make a decision.”
Reeves’s face darkens. “Well, I know what you want. You can’t wait to take your clothes off for him.”
I suck in a long breath. He’s wrong. The idea of taking my clothes off in front of Caine terrifies me.
“I hate the fucking asshole so much!” He hurls the controller across the room. Thankfully, it lands on the armchair. "He wants to take naked pictures of my wife? And I’m actually considering letting him do it.”
"Reeves, please—"
"What's next, Jenna? What else are you willing to do for him?"
His words sting, but I force myself to stay calm. "Think about what we could do with that money.."
"So I'm supposed to just pimp out my wife?"
"It's just photos," I say, though my stomach flutters at the thought of being naked in Caine's presence. "And it's fifty thousand dollars."
Reeves paces the room, running his hands through his dark hair. "This guy is playing us. You know that, right?"
"Maybe. But we need the money."
He stops, looks at me hard. "If—and that's a big if—we do this, I'm there the entire time. Not in another room. Right there."
I nod quickly. "Of course."
"And after this, we're done. No more Caine, no more proposals. This is it."
"Agreed."
Reeves sinks back onto the couch, defeated. "Fifty thousand dollars," he mutters. "Jesus Christ, what are we doing?"
I wish I knew the answer.
The drive to Portland is painfully quiet. Reeves grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, and I fidget with my ponytail, too nervous to speak. My stomach churns with a mix of anxiety and excitement I'd never admit to Reeves.
I dressed down deliberately today—worn jeans and a simple t-shirt—though I spent extra time on my makeup, keeping it natural enough that Reeves wouldn't notice but polished enough that I wouldn't look washed out in the photos.
The thought of Caine's eyes on me, his camera capturing me, sends heat flooding through my body. I turn to stare out the window, hiding my flushed cheeks from Reeves.
Downtown Portland bustles with life as we drive through.
The peninsula stretches into Casco Bay, historic brick buildings lining streets that pulse with energy.
Converted warehouses now house trendy restaurants and shops, with their industrial facades preserving the city’s connection to its shipping and maritime roots.
The Western Promenade park sits majestically on the bluff, overlooking the water. Even on a weekday, the city hums with activity—so different from our quiet life in Cumberland.
We park in one of the guest spots of what used to be a furniture shipping warehouse. My legs shake a little as we make our way to the entrance. I still can't believe we're doing this. My heart hammers as Reeves presses the intercom button.
"It's Reeves and Jenna Sullivan," he says flatly.
"Come on up," Caine's smooth voice replies, and the door buzzes open.
When the elevator doors slide open to Caine's penthouse, I can't help but gasp.
The space is breathtaking—industrial contemporary with sleek black wood floors and exposed wooden ceiling slats. Large windows frame stunning views of Portland, flooding the space with natural light. Plants flourish everywhere, softening the industrial elements.
A pool table sits near a sitting area of leather armchairs, and a massive sectional faces a white brick wall with a mounted TV.
"Welcome," Caine says, his eyes lingering on mine for just a second too long.
"Nice place," I manage, while Reeves stands stiffly beside me.
"Can I offer you something to drink? Water, coffee, soda, beer?" Caine gestures toward the kitchen.
"No," Reeves cuts in. "Let's just get this over with. One hour, like we agreed."
Caine nods, unfazed by Reeves’s rudeness. "The studio is ready. This way."
I follow him, feeling Reeves’s presence behind me like a shadow, wondering what I've gotten myself into. My stomach twists with each step across those sleek black floors, my fingertips tingling with a mixture of anxiety and something else I don't want to name.
The air feels charged, electric almost, as we move deeper into Caine's world—this immaculate space so different from our cluttered yellow house in Cumberland.
Caine moves ahead of us with that unhurried grace of his, like he's gliding through water while the rest of us stumble through mud.
I catch a whiff of his deodorant as we pass through a doorway, and something inside me flutters traitorously. Behind me, I can practically feel Reeves’s tension radiating like heat. His breathing has that controlled quality it gets when he's holding back his temper.
I steal a glance at Caine's broad shoulders, the way his perfectly tailored shirt stretches across them.
What kind of man lives in a place like this?
What kind of woman agrees to... whatever this arrangement is?
The weight of our financial troubles swirls in my head as I follow this almost-stranger who moves through life like he owns every inch of space he occupies.
My wedding ring feels suddenly heavy on my finger. I twist it nervously, wondering if this is really just about photography or if we've crossed some invisible line that we can never uncross.
One hour, I remind myself. Just one hour, and maybe we can save everything that matters.
Caine leads us into his office—sleek and minimalist like the rest of his penthouse.
A dark wooden desk dominates the space, with a bookcase of photography equipment and vintage cameras lining one wall.
Large black-and-white cityscape photos hang on the other walls.
Everything is perfectly arranged, not a thing out of place.
"Before we begin… I've prepared a contract," Caine says, sliding a document across the polished surface. His movements are deliberate, those long fingers of his handling the paper with precision.
I glance at Reeves, whose jaw is clenched tight. He snatches the document before I can reach for it.
"This is pretty standard for professional photography sessions," Caine explains, his voice smooth and unhurried. "It outlines usage rights and privacy agreements."
Reeves scans the pages, his brow furrowed. "You expect us to just sign this without a lawyer?"
"Feel free to read every word," Caine says, leaning against his desk. "I'm not in a rush."
I peer over Reeves’s shoulder. The contract states that all photographs will be developed in Caine's private studio and are solely for his personal use.
He's prohibited from sharing them with anyone else, posting them online, or displaying them publicly.
He can only display them in his personal residence.
If he violates any terms, he'll pay us five hundred thousand dollars.
“Five hundred thousand dollars?" I whisper.
Caine shrugs. "I value my word and your privacy. The penalty ensures both are protected."
Reeves and I exchange looks. The amount is absurd, but somehow reassuring. Caine passes us a pen—silver and heavy in my hand. I sign first, my signature shaky, then Reeves adds his with an aggressive flourish.
"Now that that's settled," Caine says, tucking the contract into a folder, "shall we begin?"
We follow him back through the main living space, past the grey felt pool table.
My heart pounds harder with each step. The studio is behind a heavy door, and when Caine pushes it open, I'm surprised by how intimate the space feels—warm lighting, bright walls, professional equipment arranged with care.
"I'll need a few minutes to set up," Caine says, his eyes meeting mine. "There's a changing room through there with a robe."
Reeves’s hand finds the small of my back, possessive and tense. "I'll be right here the whole time," he says, loud enough for Caine to hear.
I nod, unable to form words as the reality of what I'm about to do crashes over me. I'm going to be naked in front of Caine's lens, with my husband watching.
The thought makes me dizzy with nerves and something else I can’t quite name.