We park in one of the guest spots of what used to be a furniture shipping warehouse. My legs shake a little aswe make our way to the entrance. I still can't believe we're doing this. My heart hammers as Reeves presses the intercom button.
"It's Reeves and Jenna Sullivan," he says flatly.
"Come on up," Caine's smooth voice replies, and the door buzzes open.
When the elevator doors slide open to Caine's penthouse, I can't help but gasp.
The space is breathtaking—industrial contemporary with sleek black wood floors and exposed wooden ceiling slats. Large windows frame stunning views of Portland, flooding the space with natural light. Plants flourish everywhere, softening the industrial elements.
A pool table sits near a sitting area of leather armchairs, and a massive sectional faces a white brick wall with a mounted TV.
"Welcome," Caine says, his eyes lingering on mine for just a second too long.
"Nice place," I manage, while Reeves stands stiffly beside me.
"Can I offer you something to drink? Water, coffee, soda, beer?" Caine gestures toward the kitchen.
"No," Reeves cuts in. "Let's just get this over with. One hour, like we agreed."
Caine nods, unfazed by Reeves’s rudeness. "The studio is ready. This way."
I follow him, feeling Reeves’s presence behind me like a shadow, wondering what I've gotten myself into. My stomach twists with each step across those sleek black floors, my fingertips tingling with a mixture of anxiety and something else I don't want to name.
The air feels charged, electric almost, as we move deeper into Caine's world—this immaculate space so different from our cluttered yellow house in Cumberland.
Caine moves ahead of us with that unhurried grace of his, like he's gliding through water while the rest of us stumble through mud.
I catch a whiff of his deodorant as we pass through a doorway, and something inside me flutters traitorously. Behind me, I can practically feel Reeves’s tension radiating like heat. His breathing has that controlled quality it gets when he's holding back his temper.
I steal a glance at Caine's broad shoulders, the way his perfectly tailored shirt stretches across them. What kind of man lives in a place like this? What kind of woman agrees to... whatever this arrangement is? The weight of our financial troubles swirls in my head as I follow this almost-stranger who moves through life like he owns every inch of space he occupies.
My wedding ring feels suddenly heavy on my finger. I twist it nervously, wondering if this is really just aboutphotography or if we've crossed some invisible line that we can never uncross.
One hour, I remind myself. Just one hour, and maybe we can save everything that matters.
Caine leads us into his office—sleek and minimalist like the rest of his penthouse. A dark wooden desk dominates the space, with a bookcase of photography equipment and vintage cameras lining one wall. Large black-and-white cityscape photos hang on the other walls. Everything is perfectly arranged, not a thing out of place.
"Before we begin… I've prepared a contract," Caine says, sliding a document across the polished surface. His movements are deliberate, those long fingers of his handling the paper with precision.
I glance at Reeves, whose jaw is clenched tight. He snatches the document before I can reach for it.
"This is pretty standard for professional photography sessions," Caine explains, his voice smooth and unhurried. "It outlines usage rights and privacy agreements."
Reeves scans the pages, his brow furrowed. "You expect us to just sign this without a lawyer?"
"Feel free to read every word," Caine says, leaning against his desk. "I'm not in a rush."
I peer over Reeves’s shoulder. The contract states that all photographs will be developed in Caine's privatestudio and are solely for his personal use. He's prohibited from sharing them with anyone else, posting them online, or displaying them publicly. He can only display them in his personal residence. If he violates any terms, he'll pay us five hundred thousand dollars.
“Five hundred thousand dollars?" I whisper.
Caine shrugs. "I value my word and your privacy. The penalty ensures both are protected."
Reeves and I exchange looks. The amount is absurd, but somehow reassuring. Caine passes us a pen—silver and heavy in my hand. I sign first, my signature shaky, then Reeves adds his with an aggressive flourish.
"Now that that's settled," Caine says, tucking the contract into a folder, "shall we begin?"
We follow him back through the main living space, past the grey felt pool table. My heart pounds harder with each step. The studio is behind a heavy door, and when Caine pushes it open, I'm surprised by how intimate the space feels—warm lighting, bright walls, professional equipment arranged with care.
