Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-Four

Ophelia

The sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows bathes the studio in a soft, golden glow, casting elongated patterns across the polished concrete floor. My photographs, painstakingly curated over the past few hours, hang on the pristine white walls, each one demanding attention.

My fingers hover over the edge of a frame, nudging it just slightly to the left. Too much? Maybe. I tilt my head and step back, scrutinizing it like the answer to my insecurities lies in that tiny adjustment.

“I mean, thank you for this, but how did you get this last-minute exhibition?” I ask Lang, who’s seated on a sleek black stool, his eyes glued to the tablet in his hands. His brows furrows as he scrolls through the NDA my brother signed so many years ago.

“So your brother signed this?” he asks again, ignoring my question. “While you were playing sleeping beauty?”

“Yep,” I respond, glancing toward the next photograph, my thoughts half on the conversation and half on the way the image looks under the light.

Butterflies stir in my stomach, but it’s not all excitement. Every time my work is displayed, the doubts creep in. The photos—the pieces of me—are now on display for the world to judge.

They’re not just images; they’re pieces of my soul caught through my lens. Fragments of fleeting, imperfect moments: a child’s laughter under a summer rain, a woman’s wrinkled hands clutching a threadbare scarf, a cracked windowpane catching the first light of dawn. They are messy, raw, and, to me, beautiful.

But are they enough?

Lang’s voice pulls me back to reality. “Did your brother have power of attorney when he signed this?”

“No.” I shake my head, turning back to face him. “I didn’t even put one in place until after the accident. Actually, Francine’s the one who handles that kind of thing for me now.”

Lang scoffs, his mouth twisting in exasperation. “So either your brother fooled the Stones, or he forged a POA to get this done.”

I cross my arms. “Constantine mentioned something about the settlement—the other driver’s settlement. I never really pressed for details. I was too out of it to care at the time. You know, fiancé in a coma, my body half broken . . . couldn’t really give two fucks even if you asked me.”

He nods, his attention still on the tablet. “It sounds like we have an issue, or maybe not at all.”

“So,” I say, switching the subject, “how did you pull off this exhibition, anyway?”

“You needed something good to happen in your life,” he replies simply, not even looking up. “A friend of mine called about a last-minute opening, and I thought of you.”

“What are you talking about? My life is fucking fantastic, thanks to you,” I say sarcastically.

“It’s not that bad,” he argues.

A laugh slips from my lips, sharp and incredulous. “Please, you pulled an exhibition out of your ass because the guilt was killing you. Do you want me to forgive you after you made my boyfriend break up with me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

Lang finally looks up, one brow arched as he meets my gaze. His mouth curves into a sly smile, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of regret, maybe—that he doesn’t let linger. “Who says I did this out of guilt?” he says, his voice softening. Then, with a shrug, he adds, “Maybe I’m just really good at what I do. I have faith in my client and what she’s capable of doing. Guilt doesn’t get me twenty percent of what you make.”

I huff, wondering if this is a good idea. It’s all last minute, and what if I fail?

“You’ve got something real here, Ophelia. Something that’s going to make people stop and feel,” Lang says. “Stop overthinking. This isn’t out of guilt. If I said you could do it, it’s because I know you have talent and enough material to share with the world.”

He’s right. This is what I’ve always wanted—to capture the world as I see it, fractured and beautiful, and offer it up to people in a way that makes them pause. To show them that even in the darkest moments, there’s light, there’s connection, there’s meaning.

I take a deep breath and turn back to the photos on the wall. Each one feels like a piece of me laid bare. A couple laughing in the rain, caught mid-spin, their joy palpable even through the still frame. A child’s small hand gripping their parent’s finger, the trust and innocence so pure it hurts to look for too long. The haunting glow of headlights cutting through a dense fog, a lonely street stretching endlessly into the unknown.

My gaze settles on the last photo I hung—a self-portrait I almost left out. It’s not polished or posed. Just me, cross-legged on the floor, the camera held loosely in my hands, my eyes rimmed with exhaustion but alight with something I haven’t felt in years: purpose. It’s real. Honest. A version of myself I wasn’t sure I’d ever find again.

The knot in my chest loosens, just slightly, as I let the image settle into my mind. Maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe honesty is enough.

I glance at Lang, a tentative smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks for pushing me.”

He smirks, barely looking up from his tablet. “Oh, don’t thank me yet. You owe me a celebratory dinner when this show sells out. And it will.”

“I still don’t forgive you,” I reply, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Lang scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Who said I want you to forgive me? Listen, I told Haydn to get out because you and Keane were . . . inseparable. Haydn’s the one who fucked up, not me.”

“Why would you tell him that?” My voice is sharp, confusion laced with something I don’t want to name.

Lang shrugs, his tone casual, though his eyes flicker with something deeper. “I like Haydn. He’s like a puppy—loyal, harmless. The last thing I want is for him to be caught in Hurricane Keane. It’d break him to see what happens to you when you’re stuck in that world again.”

I cross my arms, my confusion giving way to irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Lang’s jaw tightens. “You don’t see it, do you?” His words are measured, each one hitting like a stone dropped into a still pond. “Maybe Keane isn’t the only one who doesn’t remember those years together. Look deeper, Ophelia. Before you fuck up your life—again. That relationship was toxic.”

I gape at him, my thoughts spinning like the blurred headlights in my photo. His words don’t make sense—none of this makes sense. But before I can press him, he stands, brushing past the moment like it’s nothing.

“You’re wrong,” I argue.

He shakes his head. “When someone dies, we bury the bad and keep the good. It’s what we do as humans.” He pauses, grins, and says, “He’s alive, and you have the right to unbury the shit before this goes bad.”

I open my mouth and close it because maybe he’s right. I buried a lot of things that didn’t make sense because he was gone.

“By the way,” he adds, already swiping at his tablet again, “I’ll contact your brother about this NDA. In the meantime, go home and change. My star photographer has to look perfect.”

I open my mouth to argue, but no words come. Instead, I turn and leave.

As I head to the parking lot, my mind refuses to quiet. What did Lang mean? I replay his words over and over, searching for clarity. Keane isn’t the only one who doesn’t remember? How could that even be true? I remember everything—or at least, I think I do. The late-night talks, the whirlwind trips, the way his music felt like a living, breathing thing in our relationship.

But do I?

Lang’s words dig at something buried deep, something I’ve avoided for years. Love yourself more than you loved him.

How can I? How do I untangle who I was with Keane from who I’ve become without him? And what happens if Lang is right—if the pieces I’ve clung to aren’t the whole picture?