Miss you.
Just two words.
No accusation. No smile. No pretense. His name alone tightened something low and familiar in my chest.
I stared at the screen longer than I meant to, the quiet of my apartment suddenly too loud. Work hadn’t erased him. It had just delayed him. Given me enough space to forget how easily he stepped back into focus.
My camera sat on the dresser, lens cap off, waiting.
Paris waited.
So did he.
And suddenly, despite the exhaustion, despite the momentum, despite everything I’d built this week brick by brick—I was wide awake again.
Chapter
Ten
RACHEL
Aweek later, time—not talent—had become the problem. My days were measured in batteries, deadlines, and how little sleep I could function on before mistakes crept in.
I could feel it in the way people looked up when I passed their desks instead of around me. In the way René no longer announced what he needed—he just said my name and assumed I’d follow. In the way my calendar had stopped feeling theoretical and started feeling aggressive.
Paris Daily didn’t slow down for anyone, but somehow, over the past few weeks, I had become part of its pace.
It had stopped feelingnewand begun to feelmine.
I was halfway through reviewing a set of contact sheets when René appeared beside my desk, silent as ever. He dropped a thin folder onto the corner of my workspace without ceremony.
“Sorbonne begins soon,” he said.
I looked up. “My classes?”
“Yes.” He glanced at my screen, then back at me. “You will study with Mischa Condre and Alia Gagnon.”
Those names always hit me hard. Not because I idolized them—but because I knew exactly what that pairing meant. Theory with teeth. Critique without mercy. Artists who didn’t care if you were talented if you lacked discipline.
“There is an end-of-year exhibition,” René continued. “Students. Photographers. Mixed media.”
I waited. I’d known all of this from the beginning. It had been there as part of my internship package. But while my interning with him helped with the Sorbonne, it didn’t guarantee?—
“I will be sponsoring your recommendation,” he added.
My stomach dipped.
He absolutely didn’t have to sponsor my entry. Hereallydidn’t. We were still months away from when it would even be due, but…
“Thank you,” I said carefully, remembering almost belatedly, that he was still standing there. This time, clearly, he was waiting for some form of response instead of just dropping his bomb and walking away.
He waved it off. “Do not thank me. Decide if you can do it.”
I frowned. “Do what?”
He gestured vaguely between my desk, the folder, and the newsroom beyond us. “This. And that. And still see clearly.”
Oh.
