The Billionaire’s accidental muse

Elliott

The thing about being a photographer is that you’re not just capturing moments.You’re hiding behind them. Letting everyone else shine while you become invisible.

It’s why I chose this job. People don’t look at photographers.They look at the people we choose to capture. We’re shadows with lenses. Observers, not participants. 

The world doesn’t expect anything from us but silence and snapshots—and that’s exactly how I like it.

Tonight, I stood in the shadows, my camera in hand, waiting for the next piece of theatre to unfold.

The red carpet glittered with ego and elegance. Plastic smiles. Publicists who acted like gods. Maybe they were. Flashbulbs burst like fireworks. Reporters screeched like hyenas. Yet I felt utterly still. Detached. This was my element.

And when it happened… it was everything I expected—and nothing I wanted.A sleek black SUV purred to a halt at the curb. The sound wasn’t loud, but the ripple it caused was instant.

The crowd tensed. The air thickened. Conversations cut short mid-sentence. Phones raised like weapons. And then—he stepped out.

Damien Whitlock.

The name alone sent tremors through boardrooms and broke CEOs like twigs.He wasn’t just a billionaire heir—he was a scalpel. Sharp, clean, cold. Ruthless. His decisions cost people careers, companies, empires.

He didn’t walk—he stalked. Like the pavement owed him its existence. Tailored suit. An expression carved from ice. A presence that bent reality around it.

No greetings. No smiles. No eye contact. Just precision. Controlled power. Rumors always followed him like smoke. Not about women. He didn’t rotate them like watches or flaunt them at events.

Instead, the whispers said something else—that he was gay. But no one ever dared to ask. Not to his face. Not unless they wanted to be ruined.

So tonight, when a woman stepped out after him—legs for days, a smile polished to blind satellites—it was like the earth tilted. She clung to his arm like she was branded there, draped in gloss and gold. The crowd rippled in shock.

“She’s new,” someone muttered near me.

 “I thought he wasn’t—?”

 “They say he doesn’t do women.”

 “Maybe it’s a front.”

“More like a performance,” another photographer 

 chuckled. But I wasn’t watching her. I was watching him. His jaw clenched just a bit too tight. His shoulders held too stiffly.

His eyes? Empty. Cold. Like he was miles away from this red carpet and all its noise. I adjusted my lens.

“Damien! Over here!”

“Smile for us!”

He turned slightly. His lips curved into something like a textbook. But his eyes remained dead. That was the thing about Damien Whitlock—he could mimic emotions perfectly. 

He could sell lies with a glance. But none of it was real. “He looks like he’s at a funeral,” a fellow photographer muttered beside me.

“Maybe he is,” I replied, never taking my eyes off him.

I snapped the shot. The smile would sell. It would be plastered across tabloids by morning.

 Whitlock’s Glamorous Mystery Date.

 Billionaire Bachelor Tamed?

But it wasn’t the truth. She laughed—too loud, too 

staged—and leaned into him.  “Whisper something sweet,” she murmured, just barely caught on mic. He leaned in, lips moving.

“If you dig your nails into me again, I’ll walk—and you won’t get paid.” Her smile cracked for a heartbeat. Then I recovered.  “You better not. I was promised a bonus for this.”

Click.

That was the shot. That was the real story. That was what was needed at that instant. He looked away instantly but I smiled at the lense of my camera.

I got what I wanted. A perfect photo of the two couples. Maybe this would change his narrative.

Maybe he was nervous about the baby as assumed. I stared up at him again , this time his jaw tightened the more.

I watched him closely. Is she ever his girlfriend? Or a girl he just wanted to use for his show? Whatever it was. All I could see was that Damien had been ruthless and I could say his ruthlessness couldn't be adjusted by any one.

The way he looked at her. Hold her hand. Her waist and then the way he initiated contact with her.

Like even eye contact with her drained him.

And yet the crowd kept cheering, blind to the lie they were being fed. Was it that no one noticed?  Or they didn't care about it.

Then he moved again—barely an inch—closer to her. He whispered something else, and I barely caught it. The noises could make it possible. I tried reading his lips .

“Smile like I mean something to you.”

She obeyed the way he said it. A different smile this time— it was faint, sad, almost human.

Click.

The crowd exploded in cheers. But I saw through it.I saw the crack in his armor. The flicker of something vulnerable. Something real.

“That’s the money shot,” someone beside me breathed, peering at my screen.

But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like a secret exposed.

Because Damien Whitlock didn’t look like the ruthless empire-slayer people feared.

He looked… alone. He looked like he never wanted this.   Like a man playing a part he never wanted. But had no choice but to do that.

“You ever think he’s just playing along?” I asked.

 The guy beside me scoffed. “You think Damien Whitlock does anything he doesn’t want to?”

I didn’t answer.

Because now… I wasn’t sure if I really needed to reply. The rumors had always lingered. Gossip behind closed doors.

Damien Whitlock was gay.

But no one could prove it. No photos. No slips. 

Nothing. Until now? Maybe. Because I saw it—the way his body flinched when she touched his chest.

The way his eyes never drifted to her, even off-camera. The way he kept scanning the crowd—searching for someone.

Click.

The last shot. The most dangerous one.I slung my camera over my shoulder and stepped back.

Because now I had something no one else did.

Not just a picture.

A question.

One no one dared ask.