Once, I posted a photo of Eugene Chapman and me, and he stopped me right there on the street, his face turning cold as he pushed my phone toward my chest and told me to delete it.
Chapter 2
My final day in the apartment was almost peaceful.
Movers had already collected my boxes and sent them north. My new phone contained the address of a small residency apartment near Hillside. I had emptied my side of the closet, packed my grandmother’s old camera, my restoration tools, film manuals, winter coats, books, and every object that still felt like mine.
I left Eugene’s things untouched.
Even the cloud archive.
Five years of photographs lived there.
Trips to Maine.
Christmas dinners.
A week in Oregon.
Studio openings.
Birthday mornings.
I searched my own name.
Almost nothing appeared.
Then I searched Charlotte.
Thousands of files.
Charlotte laughing beside Mochi.
Charlotte testing costumes.
Charlotte asleep during a road trip with her head on Eugene’s shoulder.
Charlotte dancing in the studio while Eugene filmed.
He had preserved her life meticulously.
Mine had barely been cataloged.
I clicked Leave Shared Library.
A warning appeared.
You may lose access permanently.
I did not download anything.
I clicked confirm.
That evening, Eugene came home and noticed my swollen wrist.
For a few minutes, he became the man I remembered.
He opened the first-aid cabinet, found anti-inflammatory cream, sat beside me, and carefully wrapped the wrist.
His fingers were gentle.
“You should rest it.”
I nearly broke.
Then he added, “If it feels better later, can you redo the wedding video? The color grading is too cold.”
Reality returned instantly.
I looked at him.
“Eugene, have you ever wondered what happens if I stop wanting this life?”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“This.”
I gestured around us.
“Being hidden. Doing everything behind the scenes. Always being told I’m unreasonable if I ask why.”
His face hardened.
“So this is still about social media?”
“No.”
“You’re trying to force me to make our relationship public.”
“No.”
“You removed yourself from the family shoot. Now this dramatic questioning.”
I almost laughed.
He still thought I was negotiating.
“You really believe everything I do is meant to get a reaction from you.”
“Isn’t it?”
Before I could answer, his phone rang.
Animal rescue center.
A lighting rig had fallen during Charlotte’s livestream.
Eugene’s face changed before the caller finished speaking.
“What happened? Is she hurt?”
He grabbed his coat.
We were supposed to have our final venue walkthrough that evening.
He forgot completely.
I watched the door close behind him.
Then I opened Charlotte’s livestream.
The image shook as volunteers rushed around.
Eugene entered the frame and pulled Charlotte against him.
“Are you okay?”
His voice trembled.
He checked her arms, shoulders, head.
Charlotte had a small scrape.
Nothing serious.
Still, Eugene held her while thousands watched.
Someone moved to stop the stream.
Eugene said, “Leave it running.”
I stared at the screen.
Three years earlier, he had made me delete one photograph because strangers might speculate.
Now strangers were watching him cradle another woman, and he was worried about losing engagement.
The comments flooded upward.
Best boyfriend ever.
The way he protects her!
Marry this man, Charlotte.
I liked one comment.
Then I removed the SIM card from my old phone.
I placed my apartment key on the entry table.
At the train station, I messaged every wedding guest.
The ceremony has been canceled. Thank you for your kindness and understanding. Please respect our privacy.
Then I boarded the overnight train.
As the city disappeared behind me, I felt no triumph.
Only relief.
At the rescue center, Eugene received the wedding company’s confirmation at almost the same moment.
All services canceled seven days earlier at Miss Perry’s request.
For several minutes, he simply stared at the screen.
Then calls began.
His mother.
Relatives.
Clients.
Friends.
He tried my number.
Disconnected.
He drove home through heavy rain.
“Louisa?”
No answer.
The apartment lamp was still on.
My key waited on the entry table.
The jewelry box he had once given me was empty beside it.
He walked through the rooms slowly.
My books were gone.
My coats.
My shoes.
The small magnetic board on the refrigerator where I had written his schedules had been wiped clean.
In the study, my resignation sat on his desktop.
Beside it lay the wrist brace he had made for me three years earlier.
Eugene picked it up.
His hands began shaking.
That night, he drove to his parents’ house.
Margaret Chapman was furious.
“How could she cancel a three-hundred-person wedding by text? People are calling me from everywhere.”
“She moved out.”
Margaret stopped.
“What?”
“She took everything that belonged to her.”
“Over that ridiculous portrait?”
Eugene looked at his mother.
“She left her keys.”
Margaret recovered quickly.
“Then let her go. Charlotte fits your life better anyway.”
“Charlotte is a client.”
His voice was sharp enough to make her blink.
Margaret laughed.
“Don’t insult me, Eugene. Everyone thinks she’s your girlfriend because you let them think it.”
“I never said that.”
“You never corrected anybody either.”
He went still.
His mother continued.
“You brought Charlotte everywhere.”
“You invited her.”
“And you accommodated her.”
Margaret’s anger shifted direction.
“You knew her eyes were sensitive, but your fiancée stood in a corner holding equipment with an injured wrist.”
Eugene stared at her.
“If Louisa was supposed to become your wife, maybe you should have treated her like one.”
He left without another word.
The studio began falling apart the following week.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Batteries were dead.
Shot lists were missing.
Clients called about color profiles nobody could locate.
Audio backups had not been transferred.
Charlotte arrived for a major pet-food commercial and found Eugene crawling behind an equipment rack trying to untangle cables.
“Where’s the secondary operator?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Louisa always ran second camera.”
“Louisa is gone.”
Charlotte stared.
“Well, then hire someone.”
Eugene snapped at her.
The entire studio froze.
Charlotte’s face hardened.
“Do not take your breakup out on my production.”
“My breakup?”
“Yes.”
She crossed her arms.
“You built your entire workflow around Louisa doing two jobs for free. That is not my problem.”
The words landed hard.
Eugene looked around the studio.
For years, Louisa had handled archival color matching, equipment preparation, second-camera work, client handoffs, data management, audio backups, and countless tasks nobody listed because everybody assumed they happened automatically.
Charlotte tilted her head.
“She had a master’s degree in film preservation, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And she worked here unpaid.”
Eugene said nothing.
Charlotte gave a dry laugh.
“So who exactly exploited her, Eugene?”
She walked away.
That evening, Eugene opened an old hard drive.
He found footage from eight years earlier.
Before sponsorships.
Before Chapman Studio.
Before Charlotte.
Louisa stood on an Oregon beach wearing his oversized flannel shirt, hair whipping across her face.
She held an old movie camera and shouted into the wind.
“Look at that light! Don’t filter it. Just let it be what it is.”
His younger voice answered from behind the camera.
“You’re the light, Lou. I’m just holding the box.”
Eugene watched the clip until dawn.
