This isn't a shoot I can finish and walk away from.
It's a recurring role.
Careful what you wish for.
***
Six months ago, I got dragged to an industry reception at a waterfront venue.
Halfway through the cocktail hour, the room went quiet as a woman in a sharp gray suit stepped in front of the projection screen.
Standing in the back with a warm beer in my hand, I couldn't look away. I had watched the way she moved, the passion in her voice when she talked about the way light interacts with steel. She hadn't been sterile. She had been brilliant.
When my sister leaned over and whispered that I should work with someone like her, I nodded.
Someday.
I filed her name away, Samantha, and spent the rest of the night imagining what it would be like to shoot a project she designed. What it would be like to match her passion with my lens.
The harsh blue light of my monitor glares back at me.
I am working with her.
But there is no organic synergy. There is only a corporate cage.
I sit in the quiet of my apartment, dissecting the absolute nightmare that just occurred on that screen. I didn't just lose my autonomy; I got drafted into a weekly, mandatory performance. I have to stand in a boardroom and clinically justify my creative instincts on a schedule.
And the architect, whose work I spent six months admiring from afar isn't my visionary partner, she is my reluctant warden. I wanted this. I wished for this. And now I have it with a leash attached.
I lean back, the leather of my chair creaking loudly. My coffee is cold. The calendar sidebar pulses relentlessly. Thursdays. 9:00 AM. Recurring.
My phone lights up on the desk with a new text message.
Pre-meeting reviews will be in person. Morgan + Bennett office. Conference room. First one's Wednesday. Don't be late
I read it twice. The demanding, controlling architect is back. The visionary from six months ago is locked behind a color-coded calendar.
Wednesday. In person. Her office.
I wanted to work with Samantha Morgan.
Careful what you wish for.
Chapter eight
Sam
I’m ten minutes early to the Donut, sitting in our usual back booth and already regretting my moment of weakness.
I texted the group at 10:23 PM.Need a vote tomorrow. It's... complicated.
Nobody responded. I didn’t expect them to. It was late on a Sunday. But I sent it anyway because I'd spent two hours trying to draft Wednesday's presentation deck alone and couldn't think straight.
Nadia is already here. She grabbed our coffees before I even walked through the door. I take my seat across from her, my phone sitting face-up on the scarred wood table. No new messages.
The front door chimes over the loud hum of the morning rush. Liv walks in first, scanning the crowded room until she finds our back corner booth. She doesn't wave, just marches straight toward us, followed closely by Priya, who is rapidly finishing a phone call. They are all early, summoned by my late-night panic.
Liv slides into the booth to my left, setting her heavy bag down. A second later, Priya ends her call, shoves her phone intoher pocket, and drops into the seat on my right. Nobody bothers to say good morning.
