I am pointing my camera at a rosebush, killing time, when I see him. Callum Ashford — the groom, the billionaire, the man whose wedding I was hired to photograph for three thousand dollars I desperately need — has a woman pressed against the garden wall and is kissing her like the world is ending in approximately nineteen minutes. My finger hits the shutter before my brain catches up. The video starts recording on its own. I should stop. I know I should stop. But my hands are shaking so badly that stopping feels harder than going, so I keep filming — four full seconds of his face, her face, his hands cupping her jaw like she is something precious and breakable. Then he pulls back and she says something I cannot hear, and he looks like he might cry. Callum Ashford, who has been photographed on three magazine covers this year, looks like he might cry in a garden twenty minutes before his own wedding. He turns and walks straight toward me. I drop behind the hedge so fast my knee hits the gravel and I bite down on the sound. My pulse is enormous. I am absolutely certain he can hear it. But his footsteps pass without slowing, and when I finally look up, he is gone and the woman is slipping through a side gate, there and then not there, like she was never in the garden at all. I check the clip on my screen. Four seconds. His face, clear and unmistakable. Her face — half-turned toward the light for just one second before she disappears — is someone I have never seen before. I do not recognize her at all. I save the full file to my private cloud folder and keep only the short clip on my phone. I am one bad month from losing my family's bookstore. My mother left it to Nadia and me, and Nadia has been covering my half of the bills for six weeks without saying a word about it, which is somehow worse than if she'd said something. I came here today for three thousand dollars and a clean portfolio shot. Instead I am crouched behind a hedge holding something a billionaire would pay anything to make disappear. I feel sick. I feel electric. Both at once, which is a combination I have no good name for. "Mara." Declan — my second shooter, my best friend since we were fifteen, the only person I trust completely — crouches beside me. He takes one look at my face. "What did you do?" I turn my phone around and show him the clip. His jaw drops so far I almost laugh. ---