“That’s right,” I say evenly. “A dozen of my pieces are featured in tonight’s exhibition.”
“How delightful!” Her smile doesn’t waver. “It’s so important to have interests outside of work, don’t you think? Keeps the mind fresh for the real work.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Speaking of which, I have the most exciting opportunity for you. My next series — six books — and I want you and Jade on every cover.”
Before I can respond, I feel a familiar warm presence at my side. Snow appears, looking stunning in a deep green dress. She links her arm through mine with a naturalness that makes my chest tight with affection.
Delilah’s gaze shifts to Snow, and I see the moment of recognition. Her expression shifts to something apologetic, though her eyes remain calculating. “Ms. Holloway! My dear, I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.” She places a hand on her chest in a gesture of theatrical sincerity. “I am so sorry about all that drama in St. Lucia. I hope you understand — it wasn’t personal, just business. Theatrics, you know. Good for book sales and all that. I certainly didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
Snow’s smile is perfectly polite and perfectly cold. “How considerate of you to clarify.”
The subtle dismissal makes me bite back a smile.
“Well,” Delilah says brightly, turning back to me as if the apology settled everything. “As I was saying, Wyatt — this photography hobby is lovely, truly, but I do hope you’re keeping your priorities straight. Six books, darling. The payday would be substantial enough that you could retire afterward if you wanted. Do whatever artistic pursuits your heart desires.”She glances at the photographs on the wall with benevolent indulgence, like a parent admiring a child’s finger painting. “You’d never have to worry about money again.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say carefully, “I’ll discuss it with Snow and get back to you.”
She laughs, a tinkling sound like breaking crystal. “Oh, Wyatt. I understand the appeal of the artistic temperament, I really do. But there’s really nothing to discuss. Surely you can see the practical benefits of securing your financial future? Then you can play with cameras all you want.” She glances at Snow with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure your girlfriend would appreciate the security, wouldn’t you, dear? A substantial modeling income versus… well, we all know how challenging it is to make a living in the arts.”
Snow stiffens beside me, and I feel something inside me crystallize into perfect clarity about who I am and what matters to me.
“Excuse me,” I say, gently disentangling myself from Snow’s arm. “I think there’s something I need to say.”
I walk to the front of the gallery, where a small platform has been set up for the evening’s speakers. The gallery owner, Pattie Hendricks, sees me approaching and raises her eyebrows questioningly. I nod toward the microphone, and she understands immediately.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Pattie announces, tapping her wine glass with what looks like a silver spoon. “Our featured artist, Wyatt Ford, has something he’d like to share with us this evening.”
The conversation dies down as all eyes turn to me. I find Snow in the crowd — she looks surprised and slightly worried — and draw strength from her presence.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here tonight, and thank you, Pattie, for including my work in this beautifulexhibition.” I pause, looking around the room at the faces of artists, collectors, and art lovers. “Many of you know me from my work as a romance novel cover model. It’s been a successful career, and I’m grateful for the opportunities it’s given me.”
I see Delilah in the crowd, her expression predatory.
“But tonight, I want to officially announce that I’m retiring from modeling to focus full-time on photography.” A murmur runs through the crowd. “This decision isn’t about money or career advancement. It’s simply about being me. The real Wyatt Ford.”
I find Snow’s eyes again, and she’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“For years, I’ve made a living pretending to be characters I’m not, selling fantasies. And while there’s nothing wrong with fantasy, I want to be behind the camera instead, capturing the quiet moments, the imperfect ones, the ones that don’t make it onto book or magazine covers but matter more than anything to me.”
The room is completely silent now. Even the wait staff has stopped moving.
“Photography has taught me to see the difference between what’s performed and what’s authentic. Between what looks good and what is good.” I take a deep breath, my heart pounding. “And the woman who taught me that difference is here tonight.”
I don’t look at Snow — I can’t, or I’ll lose my courage — but I feel her presence like gravity.
“Snow Holloway showed me what real love looks like. Not the kind that exists for cameras or magazine covers, but the kind that shows up every day, that supports your dreams even when they’re inconvenient, that chooses you repeatedly, consistently, genuinely. She taught me that the most beautiful stories are the real ones.”
I pause, my voice softening as I look directly at Snow. “Snow, I love you so damn much.”
A collective sigh ripples through the audience, followed by scattered “awws” and appreciative murmurs. Someone in the back even whistle-cheers. But I barely hear them.
“So I’m choosing reality over fantasy. I’m choosing truth over performance. I’m choosing love over money.” I smile, feeling lighter than I have in years. “And I’m choosing photography over modeling.”
The applause that erupts is thunderous, but all I can focus on is Snow, who has tears streaming down her face and a smile that could power the entire building.
As the crowd begins to disperse, chattering excitedly about my announcement, I make my way back to Snow. She doesn’t say anything, just steps into my arms and buries her face against my chest.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers against my shirt.
“Yes, I did. It was time.”
