His Lens Rejects All, But Keeps Her Pictures

Christopher Reed was an internationally renowned, award-winning photographer. But in his entire career, he had never once shot a human portrait.

I had begged him countless times, practically wearing myself out trying to convince him to do a photoshoot for me, but he politely declined every single time.

He was always so gentle, yet so distant. "You know I never shoot portraits. It's just not what I'm good at."

Until the day I accidentally pushed open a hidden door in the back of his latest gallery exhibition.

When I flicked on the light switch, my fingers began to tremble uncontrollably.

The hidden room was plastered with hundreds of portrait photographs. And from the very first frame to the last, the subject was the exact same girl.

I walked along the wall, looking at them one by one. In some, her eyes were crinkled in a bright, beautiful smile. In others, her gaze was lowered in quiet contemplation. The lighting, the composition, the use of shadowevery single element was breathtakingly tender. It was impossible to hide the absolute devotion and sheer favoritism of the man behind the lens.

At the bottom of one of the photographs, a single line of handwritten text made my eyes burn with tears.

I told you, in this lifetime, my lens will only ever focus on you. Stella.

It turned out he wasn't bad at shooting portraits.

It was just that the exclusive muse of his lens was never meant to be me.

...

I stumbled out of the hidden room, my face as pale as a ghost.

"Chloe, where did you run off to? You know how chaotic opening day is for the exhibition."

Christopher had walked up to me out of nowhere. He didn't even notice my bloodless face; he just looked annoyed as he shoved a stack of documents into my hands.

"You're going to have to handle the wrap-up and post-exhibition press. I just got a sudden burst of inspiration, and I need to fly to Aspen immediately to shoot a snow series."

My entire body went rigid.

My mind instantly flashed to a social media post I had just seen when I searched Stella's name five minutes ago.

Next stop, Aspen! Wait for the gorgeous snow shots, guys!

Stella was a travel influencer. She spent the entire year jet-setting across the globe.

I had scrolled through the travel photos on her feed. Every single one of them had the exact same photographic signature. It was Christopher.

Which meant, for the ten years Stella had been a travel influencer, Christopher had been traveling right alongside her.

And for the six years I had been married to him, I was completely kept in the dark.

Every time he packed his bags, I thought he was going on an intense, grueling work trip. I had no idea he was just flying out to be Stella's personal photographer.

My throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. It hurt to swallow. I forced the words out.

"But the exhibition just opened. You're the featured artist, you can't just leave. Can't the photos wait until next..."

"Aren't you usually great at handling these things?" he cut me off, clearly losing patience.

"Besides, an artist's inspiration is the most important thing. I have the vision now, so I have to shoot now. If the inspiration fades, what's the point?"

"I already booked the flight. You handle things here."

Without giving a single damn about what I thought or felt, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, rushing to meet another woman.

Watching his anxious, hurried back disappear into the crowd, a sudden wave of dizziness hit me.

For years, I had managed the house, managed his finances, and handled every tedious, exhausting detail of his gallery shows.

I wasn't his wife. I was his live-in assistant. His maid.

Just then, his junior assistant came jogging up to me, looking panicked.

"Mrs. Reed! I just saw Mr. Reed leave... but he has a very important networking dinner tonight with Mr. Sterling. Mr. Sterling just bought four massive prints today. He's a VIP client."

"Are you... going to cover for Mr. Reed again tonight?"

The assistant looked incredibly stressed. "If Mr. Reed blows him off completely, Mr. Sterling is going to be furious..."

Christopher had always despised networking. He felt rubbing elbows with corporate executives ruined his "artistic aura." So, for the last few years, I was the one who handled all the schmoozing.

I used to be a complete lightweight, but after years of corporate dinners, I had developed a liver of steel.

I looked at my reflection in a nearby glass pane. I looked exhausted. My eyes were dull, completely worn down by the stress of corporate pleasantries and business deals.

And then I thought of Christopher. Thirty years old, but still looking like a pristine, untouched bohemian artist who had never worried about a single practical thing in his life.

I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own body.

I used to hate networking too. When did I slowly morph into someone I didn't even recognize?

Seeing that I wasn't speaking, the assistant nervously tried again. "Mrs. Reed... maybe you should call Mr. Reed and talk to him?"

I snapped out of it and looked at the assistant.

"Call Mr. Sterling. Tell him Christopher had a sudden burst of inspiration, flew to Aspen, and won't be able to make the dinner."

If Christopher didn't care about his own career, if he was willing to throw away his VIP clients to go play in the snow with Stella, why the hell should I keep wiping his ass for him?

But in the end, I still went.

I had been the one to personally invite Mr. Sterling to the gallery. It was my responsibility to see it through.

When Mr. Sterling walked into the private dining room and saw I was alone, his face darkened, and his tone turned sharp and mocking.

"Mrs. Reed. Let me guess. Is Christopher physically sick today, or is he mentally sick today?"

"Or is he just too much of a visionary to stoop to having dinner with a lowly businessman like me?"

In the past, whenever Mr. Sterling insulted Christopher like this, I would instantly jump to defend my husband, even if it meant offending the client.

This time, I just smiled.

I poured myself three shots of whiskey, downed them back-to-back, and then gave Mr. Sterling a deep, formal bow.

"Christopher said he had a burst of inspiration and flew to Aspen. That is why he cannot be here tonight."

"But I am not here tonight as Christopher's representative. I am here as Chloe, to personally thank you for supporting my work in organizing the exhibition."

Mr. Sterling looked genuinely surprised. He clearly hadn't expected me to stop making excuses for Christopher.

"You're a hell of a lot more professional than he is," Mr. Sterling grunted.

"But three shots aren't going to put out this fire."

I gave him a bright, practiced smile. "I understand perfectly."

I proceeded to kill an entire bottle of top-shelf whiskey on my own.

Mr. Sterling finally nodded in approval. "Alright. You've earned my respect, Chloe. We don't need to mention your husband again tonight."

After Mr. Sterling left, my body finally gave out. I collapsed right there in the private room.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. A perforated ulcer.

"You need emergency surgery right now. Get a family member here to sign the consent forms," the doctor said, holding a clipboard.

I took the clipboard from his hand and signed my own name.

"My husband is dead."

The doctor blinked in shock, but wisely chose not to say another word.

After the surgery, I packed up all my work files, along with one specific manila envelope, and handed them over to Christopher's assistant.

"From now on, anything regarding the gallery exhibitions has absolutely nothing to do with me. If there's an issue, call Christopher."

"And make sure he signs the papers inside that envelope."

While I was recovering in my hospital bed, I opened Stella's social media.

She had just uploaded a new album. She was wearing a stunning red dress, standing against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains.

The caption read:

I told him I wanted to shoot a snow series, and he dropped everything at work to fly out with me. After all these years, he hasn't changed a bit.

The comment section was a flood of envy.

"Omg, is the photographer your husband? He's so talented!"

"These are breathtaking! I want a shoot like this! Can I rent your photographer? I'll pay top dollar!"

Stella actually replied to that last comment.

He promised me that in this lifetime, I would be his only human subject. So, sorry, no can do! [wink emoji]

The replies under that were just endless screaming about how romantic it was.

I closed the comment section and started packing my things in my hospital room.

When I finally got back to our house, I dug through the bottom of the closet and found a stack of portrait photography textbooks. Seeing them pulled me into a painful memory.

Back then, the only reason I agreed to go on a blind date with Christopher was because I loved photography.

I thought that when we traveled, he could take beautiful pictures of me. But after we got married, we never traveled together. And he never took a single picture of me.

I used to beg him. He would just say he wasn't good at shooting people.

When I badgered him too much, he promised that once he "practiced enough," he would finally take my picture.

So I bought him all these expensive portrait photography textbooks, hoping that one day he would pick up his camera and point it at me.

But in six years of marriage, he never took a single photo of me.

Not one.

I remembered one specific day. I needed a standard passport-style headshot for an electronic visa application. I was in a massive rush, so I asked him to just snap a quick picture of me with his iPhone against a white wall.

"It doesn't require any artistic skill," I pleaded. "Just take a quick picture, I really need it right now."

His face went completely cold, and he rejected me flat out.

"I am a professional photographer. The word 'quick' does not exist in my vocabulary."

"Forcing me to shoot a portrait when it's not my specialty is a direct insult to my profession. Ask someone else."

He slammed the door and left the house. In the end, I had to knock on my neighbor's door and beg them to take the picture for me.

After that fight, I actually had to write him an apology letter, promising I would never ask him to take my picture again, before he reluctantly agreed to come home.

Looking back on it now, I was so incredibly pathetic it was almost funny.

I picked up the textbooks and threw them straight into the trash can. I wouldn't be needing them anymore.

"What are you doing?"

Christopher had just walked through the front door, dragging his suitcase. He pointed at the trash can. "Didn't you buy those books for me? Why are you throwing them away?"

I didn't even look at him. "They're taking up space. It's not like you're ever going to read them."

He frowned, clearly annoyed. "What's with the passive-aggressive attitude? You know how busy I am. When would I have time to read those?"

"I already told you I'm not good at portraits. You're the one who tried to force me to do something I'm not comfortable with, and now you're throwing a tantrum about it. You're crossing a line, Chloe."

I opened my mouth, a split second away from screaming at him about the hidden room full of Stella's portraits.

But I swallowed it down.

"I won't force you anymore."

I turned my back to him and went back to packing my own suitcase.

"Aren't you going to unpack my luggage?" he demanded.

In the past, every time he came back from a trip, if I was home, I unpacked his suitcase. I took out his dirty clothes, washed them, ironed them, and hung them up.

I meticulously cleaned and maintained his camera lenses.

All he had to do was point and shoot. Looking back, I was basically the unpaid logistics coordinator for his romantic getaways with his ex.

"I'm tired. Unpack it yourself."

Christopher opened his mouth to argue, but his phone suddenly rang.

"Boss," his assistant's voice came through the speaker. "Mr. Sterling just pulled all his funding for the next exhibition. You need to handle this right now, or the next gallery opening is going to be a disaster."

Christopher grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising and furious.

"Chloe! I left the exhibition in your hands, and this is how you handle my business?! Why the hell is Mr. Sterling pulling his funding?!"

Faced with his explosive anger, I was completely numb.

"Because you blew off his private dinner. He was pissed, so he pulled the money."

He scoffed. "Don't give me that excuse. This isn't the first time I've skipped one of his dinners, and you always smoothed it over. Why is he so furious this time?"

"Is there something wrong with your competence?"

I laughed bitterly on the inside.

My competence. My competence was smiling until my face hurt, drinking myself into a stupor, and acting like a subservient dog until I literally drank a hole through my stomach.

While he was out in the snow, taking pictures of Stella.

I forced down the suffocating ache in my chest, my voice raspy.

"You're right. There is something wrong with my competence. That's why I quit."

"You can handle it yourself from now on."

He froze, staring at me in pure disbelief. "The gallery is your life's work. You can't just quit."

Oh. So he did know how much blood, sweat, and tears I poured into it.

"I'm incompetent, remember? I wouldn't want to hold back the great Christopher Reed."

I ripped my wrist out of his grip, threw my last sweater into my suitcase, and zipped it shut in one fluid motion.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I didn't answer his question. I just threw out a casual observation.

"The snow in Aspen looked beautiful. The model looked beautiful too."

Christopher went rigid as a board. A flash of intense, defensive panic washed over his face.

"You've been spying on me?"

Watching him react like this just filled me with a deep, hollow exhaustion. He had been caught in a massive lie, and his very first instinct wasn't to apologize or explain. It was to interrogate me.

I let out a dry laugh, my tone completely devoid of emotion.

"Stella's social media is public. Your comments are public too."

Under her post, Christopher had commented using his burner account:

You are the only muse my lens will ever know.

His burner account wasn't exactly a secret CIA operation. The profile picture was a lighting test shot he took in our home office.

A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

"Look, there's a reason for all of this. If you really want me to take your picture that badly, I can talk to Stella and see if she's okay with me shooting a portrait series of you."

I actually laughed out loud. The sheer absurdity of it was staggering. My own husband had to ask another woman for permission to take my picture.

"Don't bother. I already booked a professional photographer. I wouldn't want you to break your sacred vow to Stella."

He paused, clearly remembering the wish I had been nagging him about for months.

I wanted to take a gorgeous, professional photoshoot before I turned thirty, to capture my youth while I still had it.

And my thirtieth birthday was in exactly two days.

I didn't look at him again. I grabbed my suitcase handle and walked toward the door.

But he aggressively blocked my path, grabbing my arm again.

"Chloe, listen to me! Stella is my ex-girlfriend. But because of some things that happened in the past, I failed her."

"So we made a pact. In this lifetime, I will only ever shoot portraits of her. It's my way of making up for what I did to her."

"I gave you my hand in marriage. Can't you just be generous about this?"

His ex-girlfriend. I had already guessed as much.

But looking at the hundreds of photos in that hidden room, every single frame was dripping with a photographer's desperate, all-consuming love. That wasn't just "making up for the past."

He was still deeply in love with Stella.

He failed her. He needed to make it up to her.

But why was I the one paying the price?

He married me, but his heart was permanently chained to Stella.

I looked up at him, my voice dead. "So tell me, Christopher. What exactly did I do wrong?"

"What?"

Christopher looked genuinely confused for a second. I stepped around him, but he grabbed my luggage handle, a flash of genuine panic in his eyes.

"I'll text Stella right now. I'll tell her I'm making an exception for you. I promise, I'll shoot a birthday series for you, and it will be perfect."

"I said don't bother."

But he ignored me, physically dragging my suitcase out the door and forcing me into the passenger seat of his car.

I didn't expect him to drive us straight to the coast.

"The sunset is gorgeous right now. We'll do the shoot right here on the beach."

I looked down at myself. I was wearing baggy sweatpants, zero makeup, and my face was gaunt and exhausted from the hospital stay. I looked like an absolute wreck against the stunning ocean backdrop.

"Do you honestly think I look like I'm ready for a photoshoot right now?"

He froze, holding his Leica camera.

"Let's just take a few test shots. If you don't like them, we can always schedule a proper shoot later."

I sneered. "I thought you were only allowed to make one exception for me? If we do it again, aren't you terrified Stella will be furious? After all, you promised her you'd only ever shoot her."

He looked incredibly conflicted, and then, seeing the open disgust in my eyes, his face flushed dark red with anger.

"Are you intentionally trying to humiliate me?"

I shook my head. "I'm just stating facts."

He stiffened, his voice losing its arrogant edge. "Stella isn't a petty person."

So I am?

"The light is perfect. Let's just start."

He ignored me, adjusting his camera settings and framing the shot.

Right as his finger rested on the shutter button, his phone started ringing.

I couldn't hear what the person on the other end said, but Christopher's expression instantly morphed into sheer panic.

He looked at me, a brief flash of guilt in his eyes.

"I have an emergency. We'll do the photos next time."

He didn't even wait for me to reply. He sprinted back to his car, threw it in drive, and sped off.

He completely forgot I was even there.

This specific stretch of the beach was popular with photographers, but it was miles away from the main road.

I let out a bitter, exhausted laugh. I had to walk for three hours before I finally found a spot with enough cell service to call a cab.

When I got back to the empty house, I grabbed my suitcase and headed straight for the airport.

While I was waiting at my gate, I checked Stella's social media.

She had posted a picture of two first-class plane tickets. You could see the side of a man's face in the frame, and the distinct red mole on his ear.

It was Christopher.

The caption read:

Taking off for New Zealand with my personal photographer!

So his massive "emergency" was that he needed to escort Stella to New Zealand.

I turned off my phone and boarded my flight.

I never needed to see Christopher Reed ever again.