Chapter 1

Rowan sent the rest of the photos that evening.

I went through them slowly, bracing for the flaws Chase always found first: a stiff smile, a bad angle, some proof that the first few shots had been pure luck.

Instead, I kept finding myself.

My dress was wrinkled at the waist, and the wind had tugged several strands of hair from their pins. In one photo, I wasn’t even looking at the camera—someone nearby had dropped a graduation cap, and Rowan had caught me a split second before I laughed, my head half-turned, my expression unguarded.

Nothing about the picture was perfect, but I looked comfortable.

That was the part I barely recognized.

For years, Chase had told me to relax whenever he photographed me.

“Stop thinking so much.”

“Smile normally.”

“Why do you make this so difficult?”

The harder I tried, the worse I looked. Eventually, I stopped asking him to take pictures of me. I stayed behind the camera instead—holding reflectors, organizing equipment, sorting through hundreds of photos of everyone else.

Being useful was easier than being watched.

My roommate, Leah, came in carrying an iced coffee and found me sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Did the twenty-dollar photographer actually show up?”

I looked at her. “You saw Chase’s post?”

“Most of the senior class probably did.”

Heat climbed into my face.

Leah sat beside me. “It made him look like an ass, Avery. Not you.”

I handed her my phone.

She swiped through the photos, and her expression changed. “These are yours?”

I nodded.

“You look beautiful.”

“You sound surprised.”

The words came out sharper than I intended.

Leah studied me for a moment. “I’m surprised you look relaxed.”

That somehow hurt more.

She opened Instagram and turned her phone toward me. Madison had already posted her graduation pictures.

Nine photos filled the screen. She stood beneath the maple trees in her white dress, laughing over one shoulder while the wind lifted her hair. In another, she sat on the stone wall outside the library with her diploma cover resting on her knees.

Couldn’t have asked for a better photographer, she had written. Chase always knows how to make me feel comfortable in front of the camera.

The comments were full of praise. Someone said the pictures belonged on the university website. Another called Madison the perfect Westbridge girl.

I enlarged the photo of her laughing.

I remembered that moment. Her smile had started to stiffen, so Chase lowered his camera and teased her until she forgot she was posing. He had waited for the wind, adjusted her shoulders, and taken the shot only when everything was right.

He knew how to make people comfortable. He had simply never done it for me.

Leah took the phone from my hand. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been staring at the same picture for a full minute.”

A notification appeared at the top of her screen—Westbridge’s official Instagram account announcing a student story campaign called This Is Where I Found Myself. One graduating senior’s film would anchor the following year’s admissions materials and social media campaign.

Madison had been talking about it for weeks. Everyone in the photography club assumed she would be selected, and Chase was already planning her submission.

Leah glanced from the announcement to the pictures on my phone.

“You should apply.”

I laughed. “No.”

“Why not?”

“They want someone who looks natural on camera.”

“You do.”

“In six photographs taken by someone who knew what he was doing.”

“That sounds like an argument in your favor.”

I shook my head, but I opened the link anyway.

Applicants needed one portrait and a sixty-second video about their experience at Westbridge. The deadline was nine days away.

Nine days wasn’t enough time to become the kind of person who belonged at the center of a university campaign.

Then again, Rowan hadn’t made me look like someone else. He had only waited long enough for me to stop expecting the worst.

My phone buzzed.

Rowan had sent a short message beneath the folder of photographs: Saw the Westbridge campaign. You should think about it.

I stared at the screen.

I’m not exactly admissions material, I replied.

His answer came a minute later: Depends on whether they want a person or a brochure.

Leah leaned over my shoulder. “I like him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know he took better photos of you in an hour than your boyfriend has in four years.”

I locked my phone. “That doesn’t mean I should apply.”

“No. The fact that you want to apply means you should.”

“I never said I wanted to.”

“You downloaded the guidelines.”

She was right. The document was already open on my laptop.

I spent the rest of the evening telling myself I was only curious. By midnight, I had created an application account. By one in the morning, I had filled in my name, major, and graduation year.

The only blank section asked why I wanted to represent Westbridge.

I closed the laptop without answering it.

The next afternoon, I went to the photography club room to return the reflector Chase had left with me. He was sitting at the long table by the windows, cleaning a lens. Madison sat beside him, reviewing photos on his laptop, her chair close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

Chase glanced up. “Where did you go yesterday?”

The question caught me off guard. “What?”

“After the shoot. You disappeared.”

“You’d already found someone else to take my pictures.”

His hand paused over the lens.

Madison looked up from the screen. “Did they turn out okay?”

“They did.”

“Really?” Her surprise was quick, but not quick enough.

I placed the reflector in the equipment cabinet. When I pulled out my laptop to update the equipment log, the campaign page was still open.

Chase noticed immediately. “You’re applying?”

“I’m considering it.”

He gave a short laugh. “Avery, seriously?”

I hated that laugh. It made my decision sound childish before I had even made it.

“Yes, seriously.”

“Is this because of yesterday?”

“No.”

“You were upset about the photos. I get that. But turning this into a competition is a little much.”

“I didn’t say it was a competition.”

Madison closed the laptop halfway. “It’s a very public campaign. People online can be cruel. I’d hate for you to put yourself out there and get hurt.”

Her voice was gentle enough that disagreeing would make me seem defensive.

Chase nodded. “I’m trying to be honest with you.”

“You’ve always been honest.”

He missed the meaning beneath my words.

“You know you freeze in front of a camera,” he continued. “Some people are more comfortable behind the scenes. That isn’t an insult.”

Behind the scenes—where I carried his equipment, edited his photos, and watched him make other women feel beautiful.

For years, he had said things like that with such certainty that I never thought to question them. Now I remembered Rowan looking at Chase’s two photographs and saying, He didn’t even try.

Maybe Chase’s opinion had never been the truth. Maybe it was only the version I had heard most often.

“I’m still applying,” I said.

His expression tightened. “Who’s going to shoot it?”

“Rowan.”

Madison tilted her head. “The guy from the twenty-dollar post?”

There was something faintly amused beneath her concern.

Chase set the lens cloth down. “You’re trusting a stranger with an admissions campaign?”

“He took good pictures.”

“Graduation portraits are different from video. You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know he took the time to help me relax.”

The room went quiet.

Chase stared at me as though I had accused him of something. “You’ve known him for one day.”

“And he still managed to take more than two photos.”

His jaw tightened.