The Ex Behind My Wedding Camera

"Explain this," I said. I tugged the crumpled cafe receipt, but Andrew kept his thumb pressed hard against the printed date.

"The best photographer deserves a face-to-face meeting," Andrew said. He lifted his hand, smoothing his silk tie with absolute calm. "I invited him."

"Six weeks before you brought his portfolio to me?" I asked, my voice rising. "You sat across from him and drank coffee while I was picking out floral arrangements. What did you say to him?"

"The specifics of our conversation fall under a standard non-disclosure agreement."

"An NDA for a wedding vendor?" I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture of the paper. The shutter clicked loudly in the quiet study.

Andrew reached across the mahogany desk. "Delete that, Sophie."

I snatched the receipt back and shoved it into my skirt pocket. "No. You do not get to file this away like everything else."

His hand hovered over the empty space for a second. He slowly lowered his arm, his expression hardening into a mask of pure business.

"The underwater concept is canceled," Andrew announced. "But the contract remains active. Our next session is in forty-eight hours."

"I never signed that annex."

"I pay the vendors. I make the final decisions. If you refuse to show up, the one hundred and eighty thousand dollar penalty comes directly out of our joint wedding account."

My screen lit up in my palm. A text message banner flashed across the glass. The number ended in 0617. Seven years, and he had never changed it.

What exactly are you and your fiancé trying to do?

I locked my phone and set it face down on the leather blotter. I needed to shift the power dynamic.

"I want a female photographer, Andrew. I want J. Vale replaced."

He leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the desk. "Why do you suddenly need female boundaries only after Julian touched you in the pool?"

"He is a past acquaintance. It makes me uncomfortable to pose for him."

"A past acquaintance," Andrew repeated, tasting the lie. "You seemed entirely comfortable letting him breathe air into your lungs."

"I was drowning!"

Andrew tapped a manicured fingernail against the penalty clause document. He didn't need to repeat the financial threat. The message was clear.

My gaze drifted to the open folder Noah had left behind. A glossy magazine cutout rested on top of the background check. Julian stood on a brilliantly lit stage, gripping the heavy glass Prix Lumière trophy. Seven years ago, he couldn't afford the heating bill for his basement studio. He had sold his favorite lenses just to buy groceries for us. Now, his hourly rate dwarfed my quarterly salary.

"A big photographer," I whispered.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. He had actually made it. The dream he used to sketch on cheap paper napkins was real.

"Who are you proud for?" Andrew asked. His voice cut through the quiet room, sharp and cold.

He stepped around the desk and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. The heavy scent of his cigar smoke enveloped me.

I turned in his grip and hugged him back, resting my chin against his collarbone. "I am just uncomfortable with old faces."

Andrew tilted my chin up. He pressed his mouth to mine. I kept my lips completely still, staring at the brass lamp on his desk, waiting for him to finish.

He pulled back. His eyes tracked the complete lack of response on my face.

"The next session will feature an assistant," Andrew announced. "Julian's girlfriend."

I froze. My hands dropped from his shoulders.

"Cassandra Reed," Andrew said.

The printed schedule in my hand crumpled, the thick paper folding into a jagged white crease.

Cassandra. The woman who sat at the Vale family dining table every Christmas, laughing with Elaine. The woman who wore a high-slit red gown to a mutual friend's wedding, ensuring every camera pointed at her instead of the bride. The same woman who tagged along on my Cape Cod trip with Julian, claiming she merely needed to assist with the lighting equipment.

I looked back at Noah's research file. A highlighted paragraph noted Cassandra had managed Julian's shoots for six years. Eleven months ago, on the Prix Lumière broadcast, he had publicly thanked his girlfriend, Cassandra. He gave her the public title I had waited three years to hear.

Good, I told myself. My departure hadn't ruined him. He found someone who stayed.

My phone buzzed again against the leather blotter. I picked it up, shielding the screen from Andrew's view.

I typed quickly: Shoot the contract, we leave each other alone.

Three seconds later, a new bubble popped up.

You made decisions for two people seven years ago too.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

I was pregnant.

I typed the three words. My chest tightened until my ribs ached. I stared at the letters, remembering the hospital bill and the empty ultrasound frame. I hit the backspace key, deleting the truth letter by letter.

I am sorry, I sent instead.

Andrew walked over to the calendar on the wall. He picked up a red marker.

"The theme is dangerous intimacy," Andrew said. He drew a thick crimson circle around tomorrow's date. "White shirts. High contrast. Tomorrow at nine in the morning. Cassandra will be there as creative director."

"I nearly drowned two hours ago," I argued, stepping away from the desk. "I am not shooting anything in less than forty-eight hours."

Andrew pulled a folded sheet of hospital stationery from his pocket and tossed it onto the desk. "The doctor signed your health clearance downstairs. You are perfectly fine."

My phone vibrated a third time.

Do not pretend we only met once in front of Cassandra tomorrow, Julian wrote. Or I will correct it myself.

I stared at the screen. The threat was a promise. Julian never bluffed.

I looked up at Andrew. He capped the red marker with a sharp snap. The wall clock read ten at night. Eleven hours until the cameras turned on. Eleven hours until all four of us stood in the same room.

Andrew reached into his suit pocket. He pulled out the thirty-sixth contact sheet from my archival box. He walked over to the guest room door, unlocked it, and pulled out the ruined twenty-pound wedding dress. He draped the soaked tulle over a velvet chair and set the black-and-white photograph of Julian kissing my forehead right next to it.

"Do we let Julian reshoot this exact pose tomorrow," Andrew asked, his tone entirely flat. "Or do you tell me exactly what you two did?"

I reached out to take the photograph off the chair.

Andrew's hand slammed down, trapping my fingers against the glossy paper.