Chapter 6
Chapter six
Sam
Harbor District - Image Archive - ALL STAKEHOLDERS.
It is a shared folder invite from Marketing. I click it open, my pulse immediately ticking upward as I scan the folder permissions. Auto-upload enabled. Real-time sync.
No approval gate.
My stomach drops. Every image the freelance photographer takes will be visible to the decision-makers the second he uploads it.
I sent him a very specific twelve-angle shot list so the images tell the story I need them to tell. But if he shoots something off-list, the team will see his version of the site before I ever get a chance to review it.
I can't curate. I can't edit.
The system I thought I was controlling just removed me from the process entirely.
My phone buzzes against the desk. An unknown number lights up the screen with a text preview.
I'll be at the south gate by 8 AM. Looking forward to it. Tom Bennett
Casual. Professional. Unaware that he is currently ruining my life.
I'll be there, I type back, my thumbs hitting the glass screen with unnecessary force. We need to align on shot priority in person.
I reread my response. It's controlled. Functional. It doesn't reveal the absolute tightness in my chest.
If I can't control what gets uploaded to the cloud, I will physically control what gets captured in the lens.
I block my entire Tuesday morning on the calendar, telling myself it is quality assurance, not panic. I plan a surgical ninety-minute walkthrough, enforce the shot list, supervise the angles, and get back to the office by eleven.
When I arrive at the Ironworks south gate at 8:00 AM sharp, I march toward the perimeter, my boots crunching aggressively through the loose gravel, my printed shot list clutched in my hand like a shield. I expect an efficient walkthrough.
Instead, I see a man waiting by the security kiosk with two coffees and a site map spread across the hood, and my perfectly structured plan evaporates.
It's him.
My feet completely forget how to move. The collision replays vividly in my mind. The dark coffee soaking into his canvas jacket. Those furious green eyes glaring down at me while I aggressively dabbed at his chest with cheap napkins, babbling about my brothers like an absolute lunatic.
Heat instantly crawls up my neck.
Of all the photographers in this city. Of all the people Marketing could have hired for the single biggest project of my career.
It's the guy I dumped half a latte on.
I adjust my bag strap. Pull my printed shot list from the side pocket. Maybe he doesn't remember my face. He was more concerned about his lens than anything I said.
I force my shoulders back. Make my feet work. Keep walking toward the gate like none of this matters.
Professional. That's all this needs to be.
But then his head lifts. He sees me.
His expression shifts. Recognition. Confusion. Recalibration.
We both freeze.
The silence stretches. Three seconds. Four. He stares a beat too long before he speaks.
"You're Sam Morgan."
Not a question. It’s an accusation. His voice is the exact same low, rough rumble that snapped at me outside the Donut.
I grip my printed shot list tighter. "And you're the photographer Marketing hired."
His eyes flick down to my travel mug, a blatant, challenging reminder of the coffee I dumped all over his chest yesterday. Then he looks back up, his jaw set.
"Right," he says, his tone clipped. "Let's go over the plan."
I pull out my printed shot list. Twelve angles, one visit. I hand it to him like I'm presenting evidence.
He glances at it for three seconds. Then sets it on top of his gear bag without reading further.
The dismissal reminds me of the Donut collision. Camera before apology.
My pulse spikes. "Did you even look at it?"
"I looked." He zips the bag without looking up. "It's a starting point."
The word starting lands like a challenge.
"It's the complete list." My voice stays level, but my shoulders tighten. "Everything the bid team needs."
He finally looks up.
"Then we'll have plenty of time for the other four sessions."
Other four sessions?
Before I can ask, he gestures toward the site.
"Which direction will the penthouses face?"
I know the answer. West and south. But I don't understand why it matters for demolition-stage photography.
Tom doesn't wait for my response. He holds up his phone, showing me an annotated map—dawn light, golden hour, blue hour.
"Buyers aren't paying millions for demolition rubble. They're paying for the light. We need to shoot when the sun hits the waterfront."
I stare at the map. He's completely, undeniably right.
And I hate it.
I try to compress the schedule. "We can simulate time-of-day in post-production."
"Buyers know the difference."
I offer to send my junior associate to supervise the additional sessions. Tom stops packing. Looks at me directly for the first time since the gate.
"You trust a junior associate to make real-time creative calls on a flagship bid?"
My shoulders pull back. "I trust them to follow a shot list."
He pauses. Just long enough to sting.
"Right. The list."
Then he reminds me Marketing requires the lead architect to sign off on shot priority in the field. Not after.
I can't delegate. I’m here for every session.
The trap closes. I can't compress the timeline, can't walk away without risking Tom prioritizing the wrong angles.
Four early mornings or late afternoons I didn't plan for. Conflict notifications are already piling up in my calendar. I open the app. Stare at the wreckage of my schedule.
***
Working through my list, with the photographer marketing stuck me with, is anything but smooth.
At the third angle, the northwest corner's brick elevation, I step into his space to check the framing, but Tom casually shifts the camera angle without even acknowledging I'm there.
"That's not the angle I specified."
He doesn't look up from the viewfinder. "It's the one with better light."
He refuses to move it back. I fold the printed timeline tightly in half, swallowing my immediate urge to correct him. I stand in silence as he shoots both my angle and his, waiting until he finally pulls back and shows me the glowing camera screen.
My chest tightens because his version is better. Without offering a word of thanks, I just swallow my pride and move to the next item on the list.
Two angles later, Tom pauses mid-setup to check the sun's position.
"We're seven minutes behind schedule," I warn him.
He adjusts his lens without a single ounce of urgency. "Light doesn't care about your schedule."
I don't appreciate being corrected within my own project footprint. My fingers curl tightly around the printed timeline. "The next three meetings I rescheduled do."
He takes the shot. "Then you should have scheduled this for when the light was right," he says, delivering the line as a simple fact with absolutely no edge to his voice.
Instead of responding aloud, I pull out my phone and type a new note to myself: Remind Tom that deadlines exist.
I watch him pack the camera, my jaw tight as I brace for an argument that never comes. He shot my version. He shot his version. He proved his point without a single gloating smirk. I rub the center of my chest, completely unsettled.
He isn't the careless, clumsy stranger from the Donut. He's careful, just not in the ways I expect.
As the light shifts, Tom pauses his work and gestures toward the northwest corner.
"One more," he says.
It wasn’t on my list, but he doesn’t argue for it. He just sets up the shot and tilts the camera toward me.
I step closer to look through the viewfinder.
Tom doesn’t step back. He stays exactly where he is, his shoulder brushing mine. The sudden heat of his body in the cool morning air makes my breath catch.
Close enough to catch the faint smell of roasted coffee beans from his strap. Close enough to notice the sharp line of his jaw and the way he squints against the glare with the same intense focus I bring to my elevations.
I wish I hadn’t noticed any of it.
I force my attention back to the frame, desperately trying to ignore the physical gravity of the man standing inches away from me.
The image pulls the site together in a way my drawings never did.
I stand frozen in the middle of the footprint, recalculating my entire strategy as Tom lowers the camera and looks at me.
"You see it?"
His voice is calm, too calm for someone who just dismantled my entire plan.
Something in his posture shifts, his shoulders dropping half an inch before he starts packing up. "Tomorrow, 5:30 AM," he says, confirming the next session. "Dawn light on the eastern boundary. Friday at four for golden hour. Monday for blue hour and rooftop."
My perfect calendar is suddenly punctured with four sessions I didn't plan.
Four more sessions standing next to him.
Pulling out my phone, I stare blankly at the conflict notifications. "5:30 AM is when I run."
I know I sound defensive, but I am desperately clinging to control.
Tom zips the camera bag closed. "So run at six." He says it like it's the most obvious solution in the world.
"I've run at 5:30 for four years." My routine is my stability.
He hoists his heavy gear onto his shoulder. "And you've had this site for six months and didn't see the angle i just showed you."
He walks toward the gate before I can formulate a response, tossing a final thought over his shoulder. "Maybe routines aren't as reliable as you think."
My hands shake, not from anger, but from the horrifying possibility that he's right. He doesn't gloat. Instead, he casually asks if I want him to send the session times to my assistant so they're blocked on my schedule.
I agree to it. I do it not because I'm convinced, but because walking away now means admitting I missed the very value he's capturing.
I can tell myself that attending these sessions is strictly necessary oversight. But the truth is, it's four more days of Tom standing next to me while he quietly proves me wrong.
***
I'm halfway down the block when my phone pings. Auto-upload notification. First batch of images from today. The bid team already has access.
The connectivity sight line Tom suggested is already live in the folder. I stop on the sidewalk. Stare at the thumbnail. He made my design argument stronger. And twenty people saw it before I did.
***
I swipe over to the main Harbor file to update my notes, only to pause on a flagged email from weeks ago: Perimeter Activity Alert - Adjacent Property. It's an automated security alert time-stamped well before Tom was officially hired.
Opening the file, I squint at a grainy image of a man on a neighboring building's fire escape, his camera pointed down at the Ironworks. Between the dark canvas jacket, the thick camera bag, and the familiar build, it doesn't take long to connect the dots.
I glance over my shoulder toward the south gate. Tom is still standing there, wearing the same jacket and holding the same bag.
My stomach immediately tightens as I realize he went around our site denial entirely, bypassing protocol long before Marketing brought him onto the project.
It might be a legal workaround, but it perfectly encapsulates the arrogant "solve now, justify later" energy I've been fighting against all morning. I close the file and lock my phone, swallowing the urge to confront him right now.
***
I'm nearly home when my phone buzzes again with a direct text from Tom.
Thought you'd want to see this one first next time. I can flag priority shots before they go live if that helps.
I stop walking.
The photo fills my screen — the northwest shot, the one that reframed the entire site in five minutes.
He sent it to me first.
I stare at the message, recognizing the gesture for what it is: a peace offering. A tiny sliver of control handed back to me by the man who just dismantled my entire morning.
Infuriatingly thoughtful.
That works. Thanks.
I press send before I can reconsider and immediately regret the thanks.
I stand, frozen on the busy sidewalk with my phone clutched in my hand, and my lips pressed together.
This project just got a lot more complicated.
The chaotic stranger who drives me absolutely insane is also a brilliant photographer.
And worse?
I have four more sessions standing right next to him, and suddenly, that doesn't feel like a punishment