Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
RACHEL
Monday did not care about the emotional fallout of the weekend or how sore my body was after spending all that time with Dominic. I’d showered, changed clothes, washed my hair—none of it mattered. I could still smell him on me, like he’d imprinted on me.
The worst part, though, was how I could feel him with each step, with how my clothing moved against my skin, and how the air kissed my cheeks.
Every single contact was a reminder of him.
Of his sensual caresses. I did not want to be this obsessed with him.
What was the point of moving thousands of miles away if one visit could utterly erase all the distance I’d created?
Paris Daily was already alive when I walked in—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, voices layered in French and English and impatience.
The building hummed with purpose, and for the first time since I’d started here, I didn’t feel like I was slipping into someone else’s rhythm or trying to follow unfamiliar steps.
I felt… like I belonged.
René didn’t look up when I reached his office door.
“Bag down,” he said.
No greeting. No assessment. Just instruction.
I obeyed, sliding my bag off my shoulder and setting it where he pointed.
“You are late,” he added.
“I’m not,” I said calmly. “I was told nine.”
He checked his watch. Again. The same thin smile.
“Hm.”
I didn’t rise to it this time.
That earned me a glance—quick, sharp, approving in the way René approved of things: silently, like he’d file it away for later use.
“Good,” he said. “You are learning when not to speak.”
I waited. Patiently. Without rolling my eyes or slicing back at him with a biting comment of my own. I wasn’t a dog. But he was also the best. In the few short weeks I’d been here, I’d learned a lot. That was enough to put up with his peremptory and high-handed manner.
My silent restraint, apparently, was also correct.
He grabbed his jacket, a folded list of notes already sticking out of the pocket. “Come.”
We didn’t go far.
Instead of the street, René led me into the open newsroom, weaving through desks and bodies like a man who expected the world to part for him.
To be fair, everyone did get out of his way.
I would. He stopped near the photo wall—a rotating grid of prints, proofs, and rejected images pinned up with brutal honesty.
“Look,” he said.
I did.
The images were strong. Technically excellent. Composed with care. And somehow… bloodless. They said everything without risking anything.
“Tell me what is wrong,” René said.
I hesitated.
He turned slowly. “No.”
I swallowed and spoke anyway. “They’re bland. Safe. Passionless,” I said. “They don’t ask anything—demand anything of the viewer.”
A pause.
René nodded once. “Again.”
“They really don’t ask anything of the photographer either,” I added, almost grudgingly.
Critiquing work was part of the art form.
If you weren’t open to critique of your own or other’s work, then you didn’t grow or learn.
“Basically, all you have to do is stand far enough back and you can get them.”
That earned me a longer look.
“Yes,” he said. “And?” The demand in his expression required me to answer so I met his gaze.
“They won’t last,” I finished. “They’re empty, basic, and they don’t tell a story or demand you feel anything. Nothing about them works for anything except maybe a photo album.”
Though I rather doubted they’d do much there either. I’d seen a million shots like that in my family’s photo album for trips, school projects, family events, and more. Everything from baby pictures to a cactus seen at a rest stop had about the same level of passion.
He exhaled through his nose, something like satisfaction flickering across his face.
“Good,” he said. As stingy as he was with praise, to hear him offer that single syllable with such fierce approval actually bolstered my whole mood. Then he continued with, “You will fix this.”
Wait. What? I blinked. “I will…?”
“You,” he repeated, already pulling prints off the wall. “Not alone. But you will lead.”
My buoyed mood plummeted at the instruction. Whether it was because he wanted me to fix it or that I would be working with someone else, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both. Particularly if the one I would be working with was the photographer who took these.
Talk about ways to not win friends or influence people. I always got an A in that class.
He shoved a small stack of photos into my hands. “We need these to run Thursday. They will not run like this.”
I glanced down at the images. Fashion-adjacent. Street-level. Parisian, but anonymous.
“What do you want instead?” I asked, because while I could definitely tell him what they weren’t. I had no idea what he wanted in the first place.
René tilted his head. “What do you see?”
The old instinct rose fast—to deflect, to hedge, to ask what he preferred. I felt it in my chest, tight and familiar.
I pushed through it.
“They’re all standing still,” I said. “Even the ones in motion feel…” I tilted my head as I turned the photographs, flipping through them. “…posed.”
“And?” he prompted.
“They need interruption for contrast,” I said, grasping for the first thing that came to mind.
They needed to feel alive and not something computer generated.
They needed… “Something that doesn’t belong.
” Because that would showcase what they were and give them an animation they definitely lacked right now.
René’s mouth twitched.
“You have until Wednesday,” he said. “Find me something that improves this.”
He turned away. That was it. No checklist. No permission slip. Just expectation.
I stood there for a second longer than necessary, the weight of the assignment settling into my hands. This wasn’t assisting or observing.
This was work.
And he didn’t tell me who I was working with.
“Rachel.”
I looked up. René had stopped a few steps away.
“If you hesitate,” he said quietly, “I will know.”
“René?” When he continued to stare at me, I said, “Who am I doing this with?”
He glanced at me, then at the photos, then toward the window.
Oh.
He smiled.
Then he walked off.
I didn’t sit at a desk.
I didn’t pretend to organize files or review contact sheets.
I retrieved my bag and left before my doubt could catch up with me.
I had my camera out before I made it to the front door, fingers already checking my settings by muscle memory.
My hands moved faster than my thoughts these days.
That felt like progress. It definitely worked to shove Dominic to the back of my mind.
Paris outside was gray and sharp, the kind of light that flattened faces if you weren’t careful. I adjusted my settings on the fly, letting instinct take over. René wanted disruption. Not stillness. Not drama. Not—well, he wanted what he didn’t have and I was going to give him what I could see.
Truth.
I walked.
Markets. Alleys. Metro entrances. Places where movement happened whether anyone was watching or not.
I photographed hands first. Old ones. Young ones. Scarred, manicured, restless. I photographed backs and profiles and the exact moment someone realized they were being seen and didn’t bother to stop it.
I didn’t ask permission.
That was new.
At one point, I raised my camera toward a woman arguing softly into her phone, pacing the edge of a crosswalk like the world had wronged her personally.
She looked straight at me.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t scowl.
Just held my gaze. Disapproval radiated off of her.
I took the shot.
My pulse kicked hard, then settled.
When I finally returned to the Daily, my memory card was full and my legs ached in that satisfying, earned way. I dumped the files into my workspace and started culling without overthinking it.
No romance. No polish.
Just moments that didn’t wait for me to be ready.
René appeared behind me without warning.
He leaned in, eyes scanning the screen.
Silence stretched.
I didn’t explain.
I didn’t apologize.
Finally, he pointed.
“This,” he said. “And this.”
Then another.
“And this.”
He straightened. “You missed one.”
I frowned. “Which—”
“The one you almost took,” he said. “Your hand moved.”
I stilled. Shit. My hand had moved. Someone had whistled behind me and it had sounded like—
He wasn’t accusing me. He was observing.
“I will allow that,” he said. “Once.”
Once.
He walked away again, already done with the conversation.
I stared at the screen, heart thudding, adrenaline humming low and steady beneath my ribs. I hadn’t been perfect. But I hadn’t hidden either.
After marking out, and downloading the ones he’d asked for, I sent them to him, then resumed paging through the other images for more that could work. For the first time since I arrived in Paris, I didn’t feel like I was borrowing confidence from the city or my camera or anyone else.
Accomplishment stealthed in like a thief or a latecomer to the theater, eager to settle in but not distract. René had been satisfied with some of the shots.
That was a win.
One I’d earned.
But it also dropped another challenge in my lap. I wanted to impress him.
Granted, that might be impossible, but never let it be said I didn’t have goals.
The next few days blurred into motion.
René didn’t give me time to bask in anything resembling satisfaction. Tuesday started with a different assignment before I’d even finished my first coffee.
Wednesday was the one that broke me a little.
René sent me out alone with a location and a single line of instruction written on a torn corner of paper.
Rue des Rosiers. Noon. Don’t be late.
That was it.
No subject. No angle. No explanation. I arrived early—because of course I did—and spent the extra ten minutes watching the street wake into itself.
Foot traffic thickened. Shops opened. A man argued with his delivery driver.
A woman adjusted a scarf she didn’t need.
Life layered itself naturally, the way Paris always did if you let it.