The algorithm kept shoving Gavin’s latest viral portraits onto my feed, no matter how many times I swiped away. In every comment section, strangers gushed over the chemistry: The brooding, highfashion photographer and his softspoken, radiant muse.

Can they just get married already? Hey, keep it down—I’m pretty sure the photographer has a wife. Then why does he never shoot her? They say the camera is the eye of the lover. Is there even anything left between them?

I looked away from my phone and up at the young man standing a few feet from me in the park. Owen was in his final year of college, carrying an old Nikon that looked heavy in his hands.

Every time he pressed the shutter and offered a quiet, genuine compliment about the way the afternoon light hit my hair, the tips of his ears turned a faint, telltale pink.

When he stepped forward to hand me the camera so I could review the previews, I caught my own reflection in the digital display. I looked softer than I had in years. Alive, even.

I glanced up, meeting his earnest gaze. "Do you like me?" Owen’s cheeks flushed crimson. He fumbled with the lens cap, stammering, "You’re... you’re gorgeous, Nora. And you carry yourself so naturally in front of the lens.

Any photographer would fall for you." I stared at him, numbly tracing the contours of his boyish sincerity. Only two weeks ago, I had asked Gavin why he hadn't taken a portrait of me in over three years.

He hadn't even looked up from editing Sienna’s highcontrast editorial spread. “Portraiture isn’t just pointing a camera, Nora. It requires a frequency. A resonance between two souls.

Besides, you’re past the age where you carry that kind of effortless vitality.

You don't have the tension the lens looks for anymore.” Standing beneath the amber canopy of the trees, looking at Owen’s flushed face, I finally understood what Gavin meant by resonance. It wasn't about art at all. It was about desire.

I handed the camera back to Owen with a faint smile. "Want to be my exclusive photographer? Name your rate." Owen’s eyes widened, a sudden spark catching in them. "Exclusive? Like...

I only shoot you?" "If you want to take other clients, that’s fine too," I clarified gently. "No," he said immediately, shaking his head with an intensity that caught me off guard. "Just you. Whenever you call, wherever you want to go.

I swear." That raw, unfiltered devotion washed over me, disarming in its purity. I managed a quiet laugh. "Whatever you prefer.

How much do I owe you for the retainer?" "Nothing." "I don't do favors, Owen." "Then buy me dinner." He looked at me with wide, unblinking eyes, reminiscent of a golden retriever waiting patiently by the front door.

Looking at his sharp jawline and clean, youthful features, an unbidden thought crossed my mind: when Sienna tilted her head and pouted at Gavin, was this the same intoxicating gravity my husband felt?

For the first time, I understood the hollow allure of chasing youth. I took him to the French bistro downtown I frequented. On the drive over, I learned he was twentytwo, majoring in visual arts.

Despite our eightyear age gap, the conversation didn't drag. He listened with absolute focus, his eyes lighting up whenever he spoke about lighting ratios or indie directors.

When the hostess seated us, I ordered the roasted duck breast out of habit, only to be told that the kitchen’s final two orders had just been claimed by another table.

Disappointment flickered through me, but before I could wave it off, Owen stood up, offering an easy grin. "The guy ordered two portions, right?

If you really want it, Nora, I don't mind swallowing my pride and asking him to part with one." I opened my mouth to stop him, but my gaze instinctively tracked the server’s subtle nod toward the corner booth. My voice died in my throat.

There, bathed in the dim amber glow of the back booth, sat Gavin and Sienna. Sienna was leaning across the table, her hands gesturing animatedly, laughing with that breathless, sunlit charm.

Gavin was slumped back against the velvet cushions, his linen sleeves rolled to the elbows. His expression—usually veiled in bored detachment whenever he looked at me—was brimming with an indulgent, razorsharp focus.

He hadn't looked at me like that in six months. I let my hands settle in my lap. I didn't stop Owen as he crossed the hardwood floor toward them. A few minutes later, two knuckles lightly rapped against the polished wood of my table.

I lifted my eyes from my phone. Gavin stood over me, smelling faintly of cedarwood and highend bourbon.

A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned down. "You're quite something, Nora," he murmured, his voice laced with patronizing amusement. "Following me here, and hiring some college kid just to see if you could get a rise out of me?" I leaned back, creating deliberate space between us. "You flatter yourself." "Do I?" Gavin scoffed softly, his eyes narrowing. "His exact words were: My girlfriend is craving the duck, could you please let us have one?

Since when did my wife become another boy’s girlfriend?" I looked past him toward Owen, who was standing a few paces away. Owen met my eyes without a shred of guilt, offering an innocent shrug. "Nora, they looked so cozy over there.

I figured if I said you were my girlfriend, he’d feel a little romantic empathy. Who knew it was your husband?" "Shut your mouth," Gavin snapped, throwing a venomous glare over his shoulder.

When Gavin turned back to me, his tone smoothed over, assuming the benevolent patience of a master forgiving a petulant dog. "Forget it, Nora.

I won't hold this little stunt against you." Without warning, he bent lower and pressed a dry, lingering kiss to my forehead. "I had that second order packed for you to take home anyway.

I'll have the runner bring it over." He straightened his cuffs, preparing to head back to Sienna. Before turning, his gaze slashed across Owen with proprietary warning. In that split second, I saw Owen’s face harden.

The naive boyishness vanished, replaced by an abyss of quiet, chilling composure. Yet the moment Gavin turned away, Owen stepped up to the table, his expression melting back into soft concern.

He plucked a warm damp towel from the tray, leaned down, and gently dabbed at my forehead right where Gavin’s lips had touched. "There was something dirty on your skin," Owen said, his tone impossibly sweet. "Let me clean it off for you."

We parted ways outside the restaurant. When I unlocked the front door of our brownstone, Gavin was already lounging on the Italian leather sofa in his gray sweatpants, scrolling lazily through his iPad.

Hearing the click of the lock, he tossed the tablet aside. "Those photos on your Instagram story—the college kid took them?" I tossed my keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway. "Yes." I pulled my hair up into a loose clip, intending to head straight for the bathroom, but Gavin caught me from behind.

His arms circled my waist, his warm, postshower breath settling against the hollow of my neck. "Amateur framing, terrible contrast," he muttered dismissively. "You actually posted something that unflattering?" He pressed his lips to the curve of my ear, dropping his voice to a low, persuasive hum. "Let me shoot you properly.

Right here. How about it?" I peeled his fingers off my hips and stepped away. "Mr. Mercer is far too busy with highprofile projects. I wouldn't dream of wasting your precious time." Gavin stiffened.

He studied me for a long beat, then let out a low chuckle. "I can make you look stunning without ever leaving this living room." They say the camera is the eye of the lover. The memory of that comment flashed through my head.

A strange, clinical curiosity took hold of me: what would I actually look like through Gavin’s lens now, compared to Owen’s? I gave a brief nod. "Fine." The smug curve returned to Gavin’s lips, confident that he had cracked the puzzle. "Good girl.

Wait here, I'll grab the Leica from the study." He turned and walked down the hallway with light, confident strides. But halfway there, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Gavin pulled it out, glanced down at the screen, and a spark of genuine intrigue ignited his features. He didn't even look back toward the study.

Instead, he pivoted on his heel and headed straight for the foyer, grabbing his suede jacket off the hook. "Raincheck," he said, slipping into his loafers. "Something came up.

I have to go." I frowned. "Where?" "Gotta go check on a stray cat," he threw over his shoulder, entirely indifferent. "Since when do you take care of cats?" The heavy thud of the solid oak door was his only answer.

An hour later, the answer presented itself on my phone screen. Sienna had posted a set of intimate boudoir shots on her private feed. Moody, amber lighting; sheer black lace; a pose that left little to the imagination.

The caption was just a single tag: @GavinMercer. So Sienna was the stray cat. I lay in the center of our kingsized bed, staring at the screen. A sudden, visceral wave of nausea rose from my stomach into my throat.

Before I could even swipe out of the app, a banner notification dropped from Gavin: Stuck pulling an allnighter at the studio. Don't wait up for me. The bile rose higher.

I pressed a hand flat against my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut to breathe through the vertigo. Then my phone vibrated again. A message from Owen: Nora, are we still on for tomorrow? Any time, anywhere works for me.

I stared at the glowing blue text for several seconds. Tomorrow at noon, I typed back. Pick the location.

My sleep was fractured by cold sweats and shallow dreams. When I finally opened my eyes the next morning, I found myself pinned against Gavin’s chest.

His arm was heavy across my ribs, his face buried in my neck, sleeping with the heavy, sated exhaustion of a man who had indulged every appetite. Revulsion twisted my gut. I shoved his arm off and swung my legs over the edge of the mattress.

The motion woke him. Gavin rubbed his eyes, his voice gravelly with sleep. "What time is it? Come back to bed." I turned my head to look at him, my gaze cold and flat. "Gavin, don't you feel disgusting?" The sleep vanished from his face instantly.

His jaw tightened. "You saw the photos?" "I did." "Nora, it was a lingerie set for an editorial pitch," he said, exhaling an irritated breath. "Are you really going to make a scene over a creative shoot?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I don't care about the shoot.

I just don't want you crawling into my bed after crawling out of someone else's." Gavin pinched the bridge of his nose, adopting the tone of a tired adult lecturing an unreasonable child. "Nora, I love you. But we’ve been married for seven years.

People need novelty. They need a release." He looked up at me, unflinching. "Look at me—no matter what I do, I come home to this house.

Isn't that enough proof of my commitment?" Every word felt like a sliver of ice driven straight under my fingernails. "Commitment?" My voice trembled despite myself. "Do you even hear the garbage coming out of your mouth?" Gavin remained entirely composed. "Why is it any different than you taking some college boy out for dinner to flatter your ego?

I’m just indulging an itch, the same way you are." He shrugged lightly. "We're even." I stared at the man I had loved for a decade. My chest felt so tight I couldn't draw a full breath. "And what if I sleep with him?" I asked quietly.

The air in the bedroom instantly turned brittle.

Gavin’s face darkened, the patronizing warmth evaporating completely. "Nora," he said, each word deliberate and low, "if you cross that line, I won't hesitate to disappear again." Three years ago, when he grew too intimate with another runway model, I had lost my mind and smashed the glass display cases in his studio.

After that night, Gavin vanished. His phone went straight to voicemail; he blocked me on every platform.

For two months, I lived like a phantom, tearing through half the country looking for him, terrified he had ended his life, terrified he was gone forever. I finally found him at a secluded seaside inn in Maine.

He was sitting by a rainstreaked window, sipping an espresso. When I stumbled into the room, soaked and trembling, his eyes hadn't shown a flicker of remorse. My knees had buckled before my pride could stop them.

I knelt on the cold floorboards, sobbing, begging: Gavin, please. I won't make a scene ever again. Just come home.

He had stared down at me for an eternity before uttering a single, quiet “Okay.” The phantom ache of that humiliation still haunted my joints on rainy days. And now, he was reaching for the exact same leash.

I looked at his handsome, arrogant face and let out a soft, sharp breath. "Gavin, you can only pull that card once. It doesn't work anymore." He wasn't even listening.

He had already unlocked his phone, a subtle, private smile playing at the corner of his lips as he read a incoming notification. He was completely untouchable. Because in his mind, I was already broken.

I turned away, walked into the bathroom, and got dressed. When I reached the front door, Gavin’s voice drifted from the hallway: "Give me a ride to the studio." "It's out of my way," I said without looking back.

He laughed softly, leaning against the doorframe. "Since when do you pass up a chance to pop into my studio and play detective? What's wrong with you today?" I didn't answer. I pulled the door shut behind me.

When I pulled up to the curb near campus, Owen was waiting on the corner, holding his camera bag. "Morning, Nora," he said, sliding into the passenger seat with an effortless grin. "Let’s do a studio shoot today.

I rented a space." I followed his navigation without asking questions. But when the GPS announced our arrival, I realized my car was idling directly beneath the industrial loft complex that housed Gavin’s commercial studio.

Owen looked up at the brick facade, scratching the back of his head with an expression of sudden, sheepish realization. "Oh... I forgot. This is your husband’s building, isn't it? Well, the stage is already paid for, and they don't do refunds.

We might as well use it." His smile was pure innocence.

I exhaled a tired sigh, unbuckled my seatbelt, and walked in with him. "I'll go check in with the stage manager and set up the strobes," Owen said near the elevator bank. "Take your time in the lounge." I nodded.

As I turned toward the waiting area, a bright, familiar laugh echoed down the polished concrete corridor. I looked through the glass partition.

Sienna was holding several loose maternity dresses against her body, twirling in front of a fulllength mirror. She caught my reflection in the glass, and her smile widened into something radiant.

She stepped out into the hallway, waving enthusiastically. "Nora! You're here! Perfect timing—Gavin is shooting my maternity portfolio today. Help me pick which dress looks best!" The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

My eyes dropped to her barely swelling midsection. "Maternity?" "Yeah!" Sienna beamed, resting a palm flat against her belly. "Three months along.

Didn't Gavin tell you?" Gavin walked out of the equipment bay, a lens cap in hand, looking at me with cold, mocking detachment. "Come on, Nora. You only showed up here because you found out.

What's the point of acting surprised?" I turned my head toward Gavin, the words scraping against my dry throat. "You had a vasectomy four years ago." Gavin offered a careless shrug. "Procedures fail.

Life happens." "Maybe I'm just blessed with good fertility," Sienna added sweetly, leaning against his shoulder. "The DNA is mine, don't flatter yourself," Gavin murmured, reaching up to pinch her cheek with careless affection. "You're going to let her have it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the seams.

Four years ago, Gavin had gotten that procedure behind my back, claiming an artist shouldn't be chained to domestic burdens. I had screamed, pleaded, and spent months in silent grief trying to accept a future without children because I loved him.

And now, standing ten feet away, he looked at me and said casually, "It's just a kid. If she wants to carry it to term, we can afford the child support." A sickening crack echoed in my chest. Before I could find my voice, footsteps sounded behind me.

Owen stepped up to my side, his shoulder brushing mine. "Nora," Owen said, his voice ringing through the quiet corridor with crisp clarity, "since Mr. Mercer has started a whole new family, why don't we finalize the divorce?

I happen to know the best family lawyer in the city. Want his contact?" Gavin’s eyes instantly turned razorsharp. "What the hell are you doing in my building?" Owen tilted his head, utterly unfazed. "I came to shoot Nora’s portraits.

Didn't expect to catch you redhanded, but it saves us the trouble of gathering evidence." Gavin ignored him, his eyes boring into mine, his tone dropping dangerously low. "So when you said it was out of your way this morning... you were picking him up?

Nora, remember what I told you on the bed." I looked at him. And in that singular, quiet second, seven years of frantic devotion, desperate accommodation, and suffocating fear simply dissolved into nothing.

I turned toward Owen. "Send me the lawyer's number. The best one he has." I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit. "Right behind you, Nora," Owen called out cheerfully. "The energy in this place is rotten anyway.

Let's find somewhere better." "Nora! Get back here right now!" Gavin’s roar echoed off the concrete.

A second later, Sienna’s sharp gasp cut through the air: "Gavin... my stomach hurts..." From the corner of my eye, I saw Gavin lunge past me, scooping Sienna into his arms and rushing toward the elevator. I didn't break my stride.

I didn't look back once.

Neither of us was in the mood for a photoshoot after that. Owen climbed into the driver’s seat of my car without asking. "I'm taking you straight to the firm." I searched the attorney's name on my phone during the drive.

When the firm's partner profile loaded, my thumb froze over the screen. Nathan Miller. Senior Managing Partner.

One of the most ruthless, highly soughtafter divorce litigators in the state. "A lawyer of this caliber doesn't take walkins," I murmured, glancing sideways at Owen.

Owen kept one hand loosely on the steering wheel, a roguish grin touching his lips. "Don't worry about it. He's my older brother." When we arrived at the highrise downtown, Nathan Miller was already waiting in a corner conference room.

He greeted us by shooting Owen a sharp, reprimanding glare. "Do you have to meddle in everything?" Owen slumped into a leather armchair, entirely unabashed. "If I don't meddle, Nathan, how am I supposed to get my chance?" The blunt admission hung heavy in the modern, woodpaneled room.

Owen just offered a cheerful wave, gesturing toward the desk. "Go ahead, Nora. Get your freedom." Nathan Miller lived up to his reputation.

Within ninety minutes, every asset partition, alimony clause, and evidentiary disclosure was drafted with surgical precision. He slid the heavy parchment across the desk. "Sign here, Ms. Hayes.

I'll handle the process server and service of notice directly. You won't have to speak to him." When we stepped out of the office tower, twilight had already settled over the skyline. I checked my phone.

A text from Gavin sat unanswered: You have thirty minutes to explain yourself. If you don't, you will never see me again. Timestamp: Two hours ago. I swiped left and deleted the thread. I lifted my head.

Owen was standing under the warm glow of the streetlamp, his tall frame silhouetted against the amber evening, waiting for me. I tapped the manila folder in my hand. "I need to go home, grab my essentials, and find a place to stay tonight.

Care to help me pack?" Under the streetlights, Owen’s face split into a brilliant, unshadowed grin. "Nora," he said, stepping forward, "it would be my absolute pleasure."

Gavin sat in the dark living room until dawn bled into the sky, waiting for his phone to chime. It never did. He let out a dry, disdainful chuckle and set the phone face down on the mahogany table.

Reaching over, he smoothed a hand down Sienna’s glossy hair. "Where do you want to spend the second trimester?" Sienna blinked her wide eyes, naming a luxury resort town in the Swiss Alps. Gavin smirked. "You have expensive taste.

Have your assistant pack today. We fly out tomorrow." He left with complete, arrogant certainty. The first month, there was no sign of me. Gavin expected as much; if I tracked him down too quickly, the lesson wouldn't stick.

The second month, he deliberately allowed a location tag to slip on his public portfolio. I still didn't come. Gavin’s temper began to fray.

For the third month, he went completely offgrid, moving Sienna to a remote chalet deep in the mountains, erasing every digital footprint.

By the fourth month, convinced I had suffered enough, Gavin dropped his new coordinates to a mutual acquaintance over drinks. He thought he was finally offering me a ladder to climb down.

Instead, five minutes later, his phone buzzed with an image sent from that same friend.

It was a screenshot of my latest social post—a breathtaking portrait of me laughing against a backdrop of snowcapped peaks, credited to a single tag: My exclusive photographer.

The friend’s followup message lit up the screen: Bro, someone is literally moving into your territory, and you're still out here playing hideandseek?

Gavin stared at the screen, his knuckles whitening until the tempered glass of the phone creaked under his grip.

2 The silence in the Alpine chalet turned suffocating. Gavin’s face was dark, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. Sienna padded into the lounge, resting a delicate hand on her bump. "Gavin?

What's wrong?" When Gavin looked up, the frost in his eyes made her take an instinctive step back.

She forced a nervous, appeasing smile. "Who made you so upset?" She moved to wrap her arms around his shoulders, but Gavin shoved her away with enough force to send her stumbling against the credenza. "Pack your bags," he said coldly. "We're flying back to the States." Sienna froze. "What?

We just settled in! Why would we go back now?" Gavin’s lips curved into a bloodless sneer. "To go win my wife back." Tears sprang instantly to Sienna’s eyes. "Aren't you and Nora getting a divorce? Why do you care about her?

You promised we’d have the baby here!" Gavin stepped toward her, his gaze dropping over her like a guillotine. "Did you actually believe I was going to divorce Nora and marry you?" "Why wouldn't you?

We're having a—" Before the word could leave her mouth, Gavin’s fingers clamped around her throat. His grip was merciless, his voice devoid of human warmth. "Sienna, you were a distraction. A pretty toy.

I let you keep the pregnancy because you knew how to keep me entertained. Did you really think a few months in bed made you Nora’s equal?

You don't hold a candle to her." Sienna’s fingernails dug frantically into his forearm, her chest heaving as tears streamed down her cheeks. "The... the baby..." she choked out. Gavin glanced down at her stomach and abruptly released his hold.

As she slumped to the floor, coughing violently, he rested his palm heavily against her abdomen. His words were chillingly flat: "Take care of it. Enjoy these last few days carrying it.

Because if Nora decides she doesn't want it around, it’s gone." Sienna trembled violently, staring up at him in horror. Every sweet word, every luxurious dinner, every flash of his camera had been an illusion.

She had traded her selfrespect to be his muse, convincing herself that Nora was the obstacle between them.

Now, the brutal truth shattered her: she was nothing more than an accessory Gavin had picked up on a whim, to be discarded the moment his real prize slipped out of reach.