The Photographer's Deceptive Lens

one flaw? He was hilariously bad with a camera. Or so I thought, until a viral photo expos

secretly pregnant, he abandone

to demand I ship him my $15,000

e influencer shoots anyway

at alone in a clinic, h

d in the silent room. I wasn't

e the number for my lawyer was

pte

y Wal

built it from scratch, every stitch, every pose, every late-night edit. My husband, Austen, was the stable,

into the background," I sighed, adjus

ow furrowed in a caricature of concentration

d my shoulders. "It's blurry, Austen. It l

ing across his face. "Okay, maybe a little bl

nything other than abstract blobs when I needed a crisp shot for a brand deal. It was endearing, part

leaded, trying to angle my phone and capture t

m wrapping around my waist. "My job is to look hand

I' d learned to rely on my own team, my own skills. His clumsy attempts

ed through my feed. A candid shot of Austen and me, taken by a fan at a charity gala, had go

were sweet, or occasionally, a little snarky abou

re cute, but seriously, that

he could stare into your so

ne else think he looks fami

Austen was a private person. H

that's CHIA-ROSCURO! The legendary indie photographer who di

hantom, a genius, an artist whose black-and-white portraits had defined an era, capturing raw emotion with

caded in, a torre

I remember his work. So

Roth, that supermodel. Every

. Said he couldn't photograph anyone

an who couldn't focus a lens to save his life. Chiaroscu

picture of a man I didn't know. A man con

entirely because of her. Said

her career. Helped her get t

eart. All the jokes about his incompetence, all the times he' d refused to photograph my crucial

s and light, her eyes burning with an almost religious fervor. The photo credit had been "Chiaroscuro."

"artist." Old forum posts dissecting Chiaroscuro's last exhibitions, each piece a testament to his adoration for Isolde. One picture in

elic he couldn't quite bring himself to throw away. He'd even cried once, late at night, holding that very photo, mumbling about "lost chances." I'd foolishly

ning his career. H

lentless, and now th

ey. She ha

a legend and he won't even

a placeholder

king at the man in the viral photo, his intense gaze, his artist's hands. Was this really my husband? The

a single pearl earring glinting. It was eerily similar to the outfit I'd worn last week for a test shoot, an outfit Austen h

to the living room. "Hey, love, what's wrong? You look like you've

my voice was a shaky whisper. "Will you photograph me for

My shots are always terrible. You need a pro for that." His gaze was

d. Isolde Roth. Her name fla

atched his phone from the coffee table. "Excuse me for a second,

low, laced with a concern I hadn't heard directed at me in weeks. "What? New York? A sh

olute. "Hailey, I... I have to go. Isolde needs me. H

ow. Our anniversary. An

sary, Austen," I managed

sion in his eyes. "This is important, Hailey. She's in a bind. You und

sary breakfast I'd meticulously prepared growing cold, my phone ra

old camera got damaged, and Isolde... she needs a specific lens. You have that professional

ago, a generous anniversary gift. "Austen, it's a $15,

eds it." His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. "And honestly, you're not even u

rned, a different kind of sickness now. This wasn't just about a camera. This was ab

hed. "Austen," I said, my voice dangerous

tched into an eternity. Then, a sigh. "Hailey,

kitchen. My hand dropped, the phone clattering against the cold marble. My vision blurred, n

as late. Two weeks late. I had a doctor's appointment this afterno

the cold anniversary breakfast, then at my phone, where

single white rose Austen had given me this morning, a last-minute gesture

t, and typed a number I' d saved weeks ago, a number for a clinic I'd researched discreetly. My fingers trembled, b