“I can fix it,” I said, the words coming out thinner than I meant them to.
René finally turned then. “I know you can,” he said. “But I do not understand why I mustremindyou to be careful.”
His soft, almostpuzzledtone raked through me sharper than if he’d yelled at me.
Because he wasn’t disappointed in my skills.
He was disappointed in myattention.
No one spoke after that.
The shoot resumed, but something had shifted—like I’d dropped a note in a piece of music and everyone heard it, even if they kept playing.
The silence wasn’t hostile. It was worse. It was professional.
For the first time since I’d started working with him, I had to wonder how I’d earned this spot or if I even was the version of myself René believed in.
My phone buzzed while I was packing up.
Dominic:
In London, at the Ritz. Just booked my train. I’ll be there Thursday morning.
I stared at it.
Thursday.
That was the day of:
A reshoot for Alia.
A late meeting with René.
And the only free evening I’d had in two weeks.
I typed:
So excited to see you.
And immediately hated myself for how true it was.
Because I was excited.
And terrified.
And exhausted.
And I didn’t know where to put him.
Or myself.
I walked home slower than usual.
Paris felt heavier. Louder. Closer.
Everything I loved was pressing in on me.
The work. The city. The people. The future.
