Chapter 13 #2
René gestured. “Look at yourself,” he told her. “Not how you think you should look. How you are.”
Her breath hitched. Her reflection stared back, pale and raw and unprotected.
“Do not fix it,” he said. “Do not hide it.”
I lifted my camera slowly. Her composure cracked.
Not in a dramatic way—no tears, no grand gesture. Just a small, involuntary tightening of her mouth, a flicker of pain across her eyes that was so real it made my chest ache.
Click.
The sound felt loud in the quiet.
I lowered the camera and looked at the image. It was brutal.
Beautiful, in the way truth sometimes is. Her vulnerability wasn’t pretty. It was stark and exposed and alive in a way no posed shot could ever be.
My first instinct was to delete it.
“I shouldn’t have—” I started.
René stepped in close, looking over my shoulder. “No,” he said quietly. “You should have.”
“It feels… invasive.”
“It’s human.” His gaze didn’t leave the screen. “This is not cruelty. This is proof of life.”
I swallowed hard. “She looks like it hurts.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “That does not make it wrong.”
The model took a shaky breath and nodded, surprising me.
“Keep it,” she said softly. “That’s me.”
My throat tightened.
René straightened. “You saw it. You took it. Trust that.”
Something in me shifted, subtle but permanent. I didn’t delete the photo.
The night pressed on.
We were all wrung out now—models, crew, even René—but the work had changed. It was no longer about perfection. It was about catching what surfaced when no one had anything left to pretend with.
I kept shooting, kept trusting, and I began to look forward to what I would discover next.
Somewhere between one setup and the next, the frantic edge softened. The music dropped lower. The models stopped checking their reflections. Even René’s corrections grew less sharp, less constant, like the tension that had been holding everything upright was finally allowed to sag.
One by one, he began to cut people loose.
“Enough,” he said to a woman draped in silk. “Go.”
To another: “You’re done. Thank you.”
There were nods, tired smiles, a few relieved exhalations as people peeled away toward coats and quiet.
I found myself working with one of the last models still on set—a man with sharp cheekbones and the kind of confidence that peaked for most in high school. He leaned against a column, jacket open, skin catching the last of the courtyard light.
“You always look that serious when you shoot?” he asked, eyes flicking to me as I adjusted my settings.
“Only when people talk,” I replied without missing a beat.
He laughed. “Ouch.”
I took the shot anyway.
He shifted closer, angling his body toward me. “You know, you could smile. It might make me feel less like I’m being interrogated.”
“I’m not interrogating you,” I said dryly. “I’m documenting you.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Another click.
“We get off soon,” he added casually. “If you want to—”
“No,” I said.
He blinked. Then laughed again, like he couldn’t quite tell if I was joking.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
That made him laugh harder, which, annoyingly, gave me exactly the expression René had been waiting for.
“Hold that,” René said, stepping in. “Yes. That.”
I shot three more frames.
“Okay,” the model said, straightening. “Seriously though. Breakfast?”
“No.”
“Come on…” he began, but René appeared beside me, voice flat and absolute.
“She told you no,” he said. “Now I am telling you no. Go away.”
The man blinked, startled—then, to his credit, he laughed, hands raised in surrender. “All right, all right. Message received.”
He left with a grin that was more amused than wounded.
I snorted before I could stop myself.
René gave me a sideways look. “Do not encourage them.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I discouraged him very clearly.”
“Good.”
By then, the adrenaline was finally burning out. My legs felt heavy. My shoulders ached. The sky beyond the courtyard had begun to pale almost imperceptibly, the deep blue softening toward something like morning.
The night was catching up with me.
At dawn, the shoot unraveled.
Not abruptly—just… gently. People moved slower now. Voices stayed low. Someone yawned without trying to hide it. Jackets came back on. Heels were traded for flats.
René shut it down with two words. “C’est fini.”
And that was it. What models remained flowed out, like water sluicing down a drain.
I slung my camera bag over my shoulder, fingers clumsier than they’d been all night. René didn’t hand his camera off to me like usual, instead he stepped beside me.
“Give me that.”
I blinked. “What?”
He took one of the cameras from my hands and started winding the strap around it with efficient, practiced movements. “You pack yours. I pack mine.”
That felt… strange. Not unwelcome. Just unfamiliar.
We worked in silence, side by side. No instructions. No critiques. Just the quiet rhythm of ending something that had demanded everything we had.
Assistants hovered uncertainly.
René glanced up. “Finish the breakdown.”
They scattered immediately.
When we were done, he picked up both camera bags.
“Come.”
We stepped out into the morning.
Paris was hushed in that early-hour way—delivery trucks rumbling, birds tentative, the city stretching rather than waking. The rain had left everything slick and reflective, light caught in puddles like a thousand small mirrors.
We walked half a block before I realized where we were headed.
“René—”
“Food and coffee are good,” he said, as if this were a scientific fact. “Do not argue.”
I closed my mouth.
The café was nearly empty. We sat at a small table by the window. I didn’t remember ordering, but suddenly there was coffee in front of me and a plate of something warm and buttery and lifesaving.
I ate like a starving woman, my stomach registering thorough disapproval with my abuse through the night.
René watched me with something like approval.
“You did good,” he said, finally.
The words stunned me. It wasn’t him being all warm and fuzzy or even cutting. It sounded far more practical, as if he expected nothing less.
“Go home,” he continued. “Upload. Sleep. We review sheets this afternoon.”
I nodded.
“Do not look at them before then.”
I opened my mouth.
“Do not.”
I shut it again.
A car was waiting when we stepped back outside.
René opened the door for me. “This takes you home.”
“I can—”
“You will not.” He met my eyes. “You have given me enough for one night.”
The driver waited patiently.
René hesitated, then added, quieter, “You see more when you are rested.”
I climbed in.
“Good night, Rachel.”
“Good night, René.”
As the car pulled away, I watched him recede through the rain-softened glass, already turning back toward the city.
It seemed to take almost no time before the driver had me at my building.
After thanking him, I took a beat. Paris was beginning to wake.
Delivery trucks hissed past. A café across the street lifted its shutters.
Somewhere, a woman laughed too loudly for this hour.
The city didn’t rush morning here. It eased into it, stretching awake with the kind of grace you only get after centuries of practice.
Inside, everything was hushed. As I climbed the stairs, music drifted down from the second floor.
Violin.
Soft, slow, almost tentative—David, I was sure of it.
He always played like he was coaxing the sound out rather than demanding it, like the instrument might spook if he pushed too hard.
Even half-asleep, it pulled at something in my chest. I paused on the landing longer than I meant to, letting the notes wash over me, then forced myself to keep going.
Tired draped over me like a cloak by the time I reached the third floor.
I unlocked my door and slipped inside, moving by memory more than intention. Bag down. Shoes off. Camera out. I plugged in the memory cards, fingers clumsy but precise, uploading everything to the Paris Daily server the way René had told me to. No reviewing. No peeking. Just transfer and trust.
The files began to crawl across the screen.
That was enough.
I made it to the shower on aching feet and let the warm water rinse the night off me—perfume, sweat, the faint grit of the city. No long indulgence. Just clean.
Then bed.
The deep gray sheets were cool against my skin, the purple quilt heavy and familiar as I pulled it up. I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering for a second before I opened Dominic’s thread and hit record.
“Hey,” I murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Tonight was… perfect.” A yawn cracked through the word and I laughed softly. “As tired as I am right now, I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
Another yawn, bigger this time.
“I am also dead tired,” I added. “So, sleeping now. More stories later.”
I sent it before I could overthink it. I didn’t even bother with the charger, I just rolled onto my side and passed out.