Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
RACHEL
Aweek later, time—not talent—had become the problem. My days were measured in batteries, deadlines, and how little sleep I could function on before mistakes crept in.
I could feel it in the way people looked up when I passed their desks instead of around me. In the way René no longer announced what he needed—he just said my name and assumed I’d follow. In the way my calendar had stopped feeling theoretical and started feeling aggressive.
Paris Daily didn’t slow down for anyone, but somehow, over the past few weeks, I had become part of its pace.
It had stopped feeling new and begun to feel mine.
I was halfway through reviewing a set of contact sheets when René appeared beside my desk, silent as ever. He dropped a thin folder onto the corner of my workspace without ceremony.
“Sorbonne begins soon,” he said.
I looked up. “My classes?”
“Yes.” He glanced at my screen, then back at me. “You will study with Mischa Condre and Alia Gagnon.”
Those names always hit me hard. Not because I idolized them—but because I knew exactly what that pairing meant. Theory with teeth. Critique without mercy. Artists who didn’t care if you were talented if you lacked discipline.
“There is an end-of-year exhibition,” René continued. “Students. Photographers. Mixed media.”
I waited. I’d known all of this from the beginning. It had been there as part of my internship package. But while my interning with him helped with the Sorbonne, it didn’t guarantee—
“I will be sponsoring your recommendation,” he added.
My stomach dipped.
He absolutely didn’t have to sponsor my entry. He really didn’t. We were still months away from when it would even be due, but…
“Thank you,” I said carefully, remembering almost belatedly, that he was still standing there. This time, clearly, he was waiting for some form of response instead of just dropping his bomb and walking away.
He waved it off. “Do not thank me. Decide if you can do it.”
I frowned. “Do what?”
He gestured vaguely between my desk, the folder, and the newsroom beyond us. “This. And that. And still see clearly.”
Oh.
Time, then. Time was the real assignment.
“You will make room,” René said, already turning away. “Or something else will make room for you.”
With that, he was gone.
I stared at the folder for a moment longer than necessary before opening it. Schedules. Deadlines. Requirements. The faint, undeniable promise of being seen at the end of the year if I survived the path there.
This wasn’t a side quest.
This was a second track.
I exhaled slowly and added the dates to my calendar.
Something would have to give. I just didn’t know what yet.
By late morning, I was sent downstairs to assist on a shoot already in progress. Nothing glamorous—editorial fashion, street-adjacent, meant to feel effortless while requiring absolute control.
As I crossed the newsroom, someone leaned back from a neighboring desk and smiled at me.
“Hey,” she said, bright-eyed and easy. “You’re René’s shadow, right?”
I smiled back. “Something like that.”
She stood, smoothing her jacket. “I’m Margaux. I’ve seen your work on the wall.” A pause, deliberate but not predatory. “You want to grab a coffee later?”
The offer was casual. Friendly. No pressure. I appreciated that. Really appreciated it. Margaux—pronounced Margo but I thought the French spelling was prettier—was lovely. I also didn’t hesitate.
“That’s kind of you,” I said, keeping my tone warm and steady. “But I don’t mix work and… anything else. It keeps things clean.”
Margaux blinked, then laughed softly. “I understand. Worth asking.”
“Always,” I said.
She smiled again—unoffended, thank fuck—and turned back to her desk. “Rachel?”
“Hmmm?”
“If we all go out for a drink, then it’s not mixing work with anything else, it’s just work—with alcohol.” She met my grin with a sly smile. “Besides, I think we could just—enjoy talking.”
“You, me, and everyone else here?” I asked more out of curiosity than irritation, and Margaux’s smile just grew.
“Not everyone,” she said, deadpan. “René with alcohol is not as fun as he is day to day.”
That actually made me snort with laughter. “Good to know.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Still, think about it. It is always good to have friends at work. Oui?”
As flirty as her initial offer had been, this one was just frank and open. “Oui,” I said. “Let me know, if there are drinks—I’ll see if I can make it.”
I walked on, pulse steady, strangely proud of myself. Not for saying no—but for not overexplaining it.
René noticed everything. Better to make it easy for him. The last thing I wanted was to ruin the ambience, especially if a drunk René was not as fun as a sober one. Holy hell, what did that even mean?
The shoot was set up in a converted space flooded with afternoon light. White walls. Organized turmoil. Stylists adjusting fabric. Assistants moving with purpose. The hum of people who knew their jobs and expected you to know yours.
I was adjusting reflectors when she stepped into view.
The woman from the designer’s shop.
I recognized her instantly, even dressed down without the dramatic framing of the boutique. Midnight-black hair fell loose around her shoulders, her pale skin catching the light in a way that made everything else recede. She moved with quiet confidence, not posing yet, just owning the space.
Every line of her seemed clearly delineated, a work of art given form. Fragile and fierce all at once. Alive. Talk about a disruption.
I forced my attention back to my task.
Then she spoke.
“Where would you like me?”
The accent caught me off guard.
Australian. Warm, rounded vowels cutting gently through the clipped French and neutral English around us.
Lyrical. Unexpected. Beautiful.
I looked up again, met her dark, endless eyes—and didn’t look away this time.
“The mark,” I said, gesturing. “Just there, please.”
She moved without question. Without adjustment. Like she trusted the space to hold her. Interesting. Maybe she was just that professional.
The shoot began.
The photographer called for movement.
Not big. Not dramatic. Just enough to disturb the stillness.
The model shifted her weight, the fabric responding like it had been waiting for permission.
Light slid along the line of her collarbone, caught briefly in the hollow of her throat, then fell away again.
Her breathing changed—slower, deeper—altering the tension in her shoulders by degrees most people would miss.
I didn’t.
This was the part René meant when he talked about interruption. Not noise. Not chaos. Just the moment when something stopped being posed and started being true.
I tracked it instinctively—the way her fingers flexed between frames, the subtle recalibration of her spine when the stylist stepped back, the flicker of impatience she smoothed away before it reached her face.
She wasn’t performing emotion. She was holding herself open just long enough for it to surface on its own.
The room faded.
All I could hear was the shutter, the quiet click that punctuated time instead of breaking it. All I could see was the way the light argued with shadow across her skin, how one wrong step would flatten everything and one right one would make it sing.
I adjusted without thinking. Half a step left. Lower angle. Wait—
No.
Now.
I took the shot as her expression fractured for a heartbeat—before composure reclaimed it, before awareness closed the door again.
That was the image.
I knew it even before I checked the screen.
Somewhere behind me, René shifted. I felt it more than heard it.
I didn’t look back.
The beauty took direction with an ease that made the room quieter. She understood stillness. Understood how to let light touch her without chasing it. She didn’t overperform. Didn’t ask for reassurance.
She noticed everything.
Including me.
Not in a way that disrupted her work—but in a way that acknowledged my presence. Like we were both aware of an intimacy in this moment, and had decided, independently, not to make it strange.
Some part of my brain continued to work even as another remained absolutely riveted on her motions. They were fluid when they needed to be. Abrupt when the photographer called for it. That part that continued to work noticed that René watched from the periphery, arms folded, gaze sharp.
Once my work to help with the shoot was done, I settled my hands on my camera, then adjusted my position and angle. Stepped closer. Felt the old instinct rise—the urge to hang back, to soften, to wait.
I didn’t. I didn’t get in the way, but I didn’t wait.
I lifted my camera and took the shot when the moment arrived—not after.
Her gaze flicked toward me, just for a heartbeat. Something unreadable passed between us.
Then it was gone.
The shoot wrapped efficiently. She thanked the crew, collected her things, and paused briefly beside me.
“You are a photographer,” she said quietly, that Sydney lilt smoothing the words. “I saw you a couple of weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure. You see what you want swiftly… that’s very good.”
“Thank you,” I replied, still wrapped up in the fact she’d noticed me. Was it the day I thought I’d seen her?
She smiled—not flirtatious, not distant. Just present.
“See you around,” she said, and then she was gone.
No lingering. No exchange. Just the echo of possibility.
And it wasn’t until she was gone that it hit me. I didn’t know her name.
By the time I got home that night, my head was full and my body pleasantly wrecked. I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and let myself sit on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than usual.
Classes. A show. Work that demanded everything.
And somewhere in the city, a model with an accent I wouldn’t forget.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I didn’t need to look.
Dominic.
I exhaled slowly, then flipped the phone face down without reading it. Not tonight.