Chapter 3

The family anniversary photo shoot took place at Eugene's studio.

His mother, Ursula Chapman, had always been polite to me. That day, though, she was unusually warm.

Just not toward me.

"Charlotte, come here. Stand next to Eugene."

Ursula took Charlotte by the hand and led her to the center of the set, right beside Eugene.

Charlotte looked awkward and glanced at me. "Mrs. Chapman, are you sure? Louisa's right there."

"Oh, don't be silly. You and Eugene have worked together for years. You're practically family."

Ursula laughed, then turned to me.

"Louisa, you know your way around a studio. Would you mind helping with the lighting and holding the reflector?"

And just like that, I went from future daughter-in-law to part of the crew.

I stood off to the side with the heavy reflector in my hands and watched them pose under the studio lights.

Eugene's parents. Eugene. Charlotte.

Together, they looked like a family.

And I was the one standing outside the frame.

A dull ache settled in my chest.

Ursula must have noticed my expression because she called out from the set, "Louisa, smile a little. Don't bring everyone down on such a happy day."

To her, my hurt was just an inconvenience, something that threatened to spoil the mood.

I looked at Eugene, hoping he would say something.

Instead, he frowned and silently mouthed, "Think of everyone else."

There it was again.

Whenever family or some special occasion was involved, I was always the one expected to give in.

Partway through the shoot, one of the lights hit Charlotte directly in the face, and she immediately squinted.

Eugene noticed at once.

"Turn that down," he told the lighting tech. "Use a softbox."

He remembered that Charlotte's eyes were sensitive to bright light.

He remembered every little thing about her.

But he had forgotten about my old wrist injury and how long I could hold something heavy before it started to hurt.

The reflector felt heavier by the minute, and a familiar ache started spreading through my wrist.

Three years ago, I fractured it when I fell while trying to keep one of Eugene's expensive Leica cameras from hitting the ground.

I still remembered how worried he was.

He stayed outside the treatment room all night, then modified a padded camera strap for me so it wouldn't put as much pressure on my wrist. For months after that, he insisted on carrying my equipment cases himself.

Later, he took that same strap and used it as part of Charlotte's livestream setup because he said it looked good on camera.

The memory made my chest ache.

My wrist kept hurting until I finally lost my grip, and the reflector slipped from my hands.

Everyone turned to look.

Eugene hurried over, but he didn't even glance at my wrist. He bent down and picked up the reflector instead.

"What happened? Can we keep shooting or not?"

I looked at him, my eyes stinging. "My wrist hurts."

Only then did he notice the swelling. His frown deepened. "Why weren't you more careful?"

There wasn't a trace of concern in his voice. Only blame.

"Can we still get the last few shots done in time for the account update?" he asked.

That was when the last bit of hope I had left disappeared.

Whatever care he once had for me belonged to someone else now. Apparently, so did his memory.

I shook my head and slowly stood. "No. I can't keep shooting."

Then I walked toward the equipment area without looking back.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from the residency program.

[Ms. Perry, due to severe weather in the forecast, tomorrow evening's incoming group will be departing earlier than planned. Please report for check-in tomorrow afternoon and make the necessary travel arrangements.]

That worked for me.

I walked over to the worktable, took off the wrist brace I had worn for the past three years, and gently set it down.

Eugene was the one who put it on me after my injury. Now, I was leaving it behind.

The photographer handed Eugene the final proofs to review.

In every shot, his parents and Charlotte smiled brightly at the camera.

And in the corner of one photo, barely visible in the reflection of a glass panel, was a faint, blurry figure.

Me.