Chapter Eight
D om
The whiskey burned going down, but it did nothing to dull the ache in Dom's chest. Two days since Maya had walked out of his life, taking her cameras and her accusations and her damned documentation with her.
Two days of trying to convince himself he'd made the right choice, that protecting his privacy was more important than whatever he'd felt for her.
Two days of feeling like he was slowly suffocating.
Dom stared out at the Connecticut forest from his balcony, the empty whiskey tumbler forgotten in his hand.
The autumn leaves were beginning to turn, painting the landscape in shades of gold and crimson that reminded him of the light in Maya's hair when she'd leaned over her camera, lost in her art.
His phone buzzed with another call from Jake, the fourth today. Dom let it go to voicemail like the others. He knew what his agent would tell him—that the campaign with Maya was his last shot at redemption, that he needed to salvage whatever he could from the professional relationship.
What Jake didn't understand was that Dom had destroyed far more than a business arrangement when he'd accused Maya of exploitation and thrown her out of his suite.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding. His heart leaped before he could stop it, hope flooding through him that Maya had come back, that she was willing to fight for whatever they'd shared.
Instead, he opened the door to find Katarina, the brunette he'd turned away the night Maya had first come to him. She was wearing a red dress that left little to the imagination, her smile confident and alluring.
"Dominic," she purred, stepping closer. "I thought you might be lonely."
"I'm fine," he said curtly.
"Are you?" Katarina's hand trailed down his chest, her touch practiced and confident. "You look like a man who needs distraction."
Three weeks ago, he would have pulled her inside without hesitation. Sexy, willing, uncomplicated—exactly what he'd always preferred. No messy emotions, no expectations beyond physical satisfaction, no risk of vulnerability or attachment.
Now the thought left him cold.
"I appreciate the offer," he said, catching her hand before it wandered lower. "But no."
Katarina's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Still hung up on the photographer? Dom, darling, she was nobody. A professional assignment that got a little personal. Nothing more."
"She wasn't nobody," Dom said, surprising himself with the vehemence in his voice.
"No? Then where is she?" Katarina's smile turned cruel. "If she meant something to you, why did you let her leave?"
Dom stared at her, the question hitting closer to home than he wanted to admit. Why had he let Maya leave? Why had he chosen to believe the worst about her motivations instead of trusting what he'd seen in her eyes every time she looked at him?
"Goodnight, Katarina," Dom said..
But the woman's words echoed in his head as Dom returned to his balcony and his whiskey. If Maya had meant something to him—and God help him, she had—then why had he reacted with such brutal suspicion when he'd discovered her photos?
He knew the answer, even if he didn't want to face it.
Because caring about Maya, admitting that what they'd shared was real, would make him vulnerable in a way he'd spent years avoiding.
It was easier to believe she was using him than to confront the possibility that someone might actually see past his reputation to the man underneath.
The man who was broken and damaged and terrified of needing anyone.
Dom's phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Jake: Dom, we need to talk. Call me back. Urgent.
With a sigh, he dialed his agent's number.
"Finally," Jake said without preamble. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Dealing with personal matters."
"Well, deal with them faster. We have a situation." Jake's voice was tense. "I just got off the phone with Colleen Bryant. She wants to know why her photographer is no longer working on your campaign."
Dom's blood ran cold. "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing, because I don't know what the hell happened. One day everything's fine, the next Maya Sunderly is requesting to be reassigned to other projects. Care to explain?"
He closed his eyes, guilt washing over him. Of course she would have had to explain her absence to Colleen. Of course there would be professional consequences to his personal meltdown.
"We had a disagreement about creative direction," he said carefully.
"Bullshit. Colleen said she specifically requested not to work with you anymore. What did you do?"
"We had different ideas about boundaries."
"Jesus Christ. Please tell me you didn't sleep with her."
Dom's silence was answer enough.
"For fuck's sake. Your career is hanging by a thread, and you're screwing around with the one photographer who might be able to save it?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you sabotaged the most important campaign of your career for a piece of ass."
"Don't." Dom's voice was deadly quiet. "Don't talk about her like that."
Jake paused, clearly hearing something in Dom's tone that gave him pause. "What’s going on?"
Dom couldn't answer. The truth was too complicated to explain over the phone to a man who measured everything in terms of profit and marketability.
"I need to fix this," he said instead.
"Fix what? The campaign or the girl?"
"Both."
Jake sighed heavily. "Look, I don't know what went down between you two, but right now this shoot is your only shot at salvaging this mess.
Whatever you did, whatever you said—you need to make it right.
Because if this campaign fails, you're done.
Not just temporarily sidelined, but completely finished. "
After Jake hung up, Dom sat in the growing darkness, his agent's words echoing in his head. Maya was his only shot at saving his career, but more than that, she was the only person who'd ever looked at him and seen something worth saving.
And he'd thrown it all away because he was too scared to trust what she was offering.
Dom's laptop sat on his coffee table, still open to the folder Maya had sent him just after she left. He'd been avoiding it for two days, unable to face the evidence of his own vulnerability. Now, with nothing but empty hours stretching ahead of him, he found himself drawn to the screen.
The "Truth" folder contained dozens of images—professional shots from their sessions mixed with more intimate sketches and compositions. He clicked through them slowly, seeing himself through Maya's eyes for the first time.
There were images he didn't even remember her taking—candid shots of him between poses, moments when he'd forgotten to maintain his perfect facade. In Maya's lens, those unguarded moments weren't weaknesses to be hidden. They were revelations of humanity, glimpses of the man beneath the model.
One sketch in particular made him pause. It showed him in profile, his face turned toward an unseen light source, expression soft and vulnerable in a way he'd never allowed himself to be captured before. The artistry was stunning, but it was the obvious care in every line that undid him completely.
This wasn't exploitation. This was love made visible.
Maya had seen him—really seen him—and instead of running from his damage and complexity, she'd tried to preserve what was meaningful about their connection.
Every image was a testament to feelings he'd been too afraid to acknowledge, proof that what they'd shared had been real and worth fighting for.
He scrolled to the final image—a photograph of his hands on her skin, taken with her phone during one of their more intimate moments.
The composition was artistic rather than explicit, focusing on the contrast between his larger hands and her delicate curves, the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.
At the bottom of the file, Maya had written a single line of text: "The moment I knew I was falling in love with him."
He stared at the words until they blurred, his chest tight with emotion he'd spent years learning to suppress. She hadn't been documenting their relationship to use against him. She'd been trying to understand it, to process feelings that were as overwhelming for her as they were for him.
He had been trying to not think the word for days.
Love. It kept surfacing when he remembered her laughing at something only she found funny, when she absently tucked her hair behind her ear while editing, when she looked at him like he was worth more than his reputation suggested.
He'd been in lust before. Infatuation. Obsession, even.
But love? Love was what he'd felt watching his sister fight for her sobriety—terrifying, helpless, willing to do anything to protect someone else's happiness above your own.
Staring at Maya's photos, seeing himself through her eyes, Dom finally admitted what his heart had known since Milan: he'd risk everything for her.
He already had. That was love. Messy, inconvenient, life-altering love.
And he'd accused her of exploitation, of using him for career advancement. He'd taken her vulnerability and twisted it into something ugly because he was too damaged to believe someone could love him without wanting something in return.
He reached for his phone, scrolling to Maya's contact.
His thumb hovered over the call button for long minutes before he finally set the device aside.
What could he say? How could he possibly explain that his accusations had come from fear rather than fact, that he'd pushed her away because caring about her terrified him more than losing his career?
A memory surfaced—her voice the night she'd left, telling him she'd been falling in love with him. Not the model, not the reputation, but him. The broken, damaged man who'd never learned how to accept love without questioning the motives behind it.
He closed the laptop and stood, pacing to the windows that overlooked the forest. Somewhere in this same building, she was probably editing photos for other clients, moving on with her life and her career while he sat alone with his whiskey and his regrets.
Jake was right—Dom needed to fix this. Not just for his career, but for his soul. Maya had offered him something precious, something real, and he'd thrown it back in her face because he was too afraid to believe he deserved it.
The question was whether she would give him another chance to prove he was worth saving.
His phone buzzed with a new voicemail from Jake. He listened with growing dread as his agent delivered the latest blow.
"It’s me again. Just heard from three more brands—they're pulling out completely. Something about 'brand incompatibility' and 'shifting marketing strategies.' We're down to the wire here. If this campaign doesn't work out, I don't know what else I can do for you."
Dom deleted the message and realized his career failure wasn't what terrified him most. It was the thought of Maya moving on, of finding someone else who could appreciate her artistic vision and her generous heart.
Someone who wouldn't be threatened by her ability to see past his carefully constructed walls.
Someone who deserved her in ways he was beginning to fear he never would.
Dom picked up his phone again, this time opening his text messages. Maya's number was still there, their conversation history a record of professional communications that had gradually grown more personal, more intimate.
I need to talk to you.
He typed and deleted the message three times before finally hitting send. The response came back almost immediately.
There's nothing left to say.
Please. Five minutes. I was wrong about everything.
The typing indicator showed Maya composing a response, then disappearing, then starting again. Dom hoped against hope that she might give him the chance to explain.
I'm busy.
Maya, please. I know I fucked up. Just let me explain.
This time, there was no response at all.
Dom stared at his phone for another hour, hoping for some sign that Maya might reconsider. When it became clear she wasn't going to answer, he did something he hadn't done since he was a teenager praying for his father's approval.
He begged.
I looked at the photos. Really looked at them.
They're beautiful, Maya. You're beautiful.
And I'm an idiot who doesn't deserve a second chance but is asking for one anyway.
I know you have no reason to trust me. I know I accused you of things that weren't true.
But if there's any part of you that still believes what we had was real, please give me five minutes to prove I'm not the complete bastard I've been acting like.
I'm sitting on my balcony with a bottle of whiskey and the worst regrets of my life.
If you change your mind about talking, you know where to find me.
He hit send and immediately regretted the pathetic desperation in his words.
But it was too late to take them back, too late to pretend he had any pride left.
All he could do was wait, and hope that somewhere in the same building, a woman who'd once seen something worth loving in him might be willing to give him another chance to prove he was worth the risk.
The autumn wind rustled through the trees outside his window, carrying with it the scent of change and the promise of winter. Dom pulled his jacket tighter and settled in to wait, because losing Maya was a far greater failure than any career setback ever could.