The Photographer's Deceptive Lens

My husband, Austen, was the handsome, stable anchor in my life as a fashion influencer. His one flaw? He was hilariously bad with a camera. Or so I thought, until a viral photo exposed him as Chiaroscuro, a legendary photographer who vanished years ago for his muse, Isolde.

On our anniversary, while I was secretly pregnant, he abandoned me to save her comeback show.

He called not to check on me, but to demand I ship him my $15,000 camera-a gift from him-for her use.

"It's wasted on your little influencer shoots anyway," he said, his voice flat.

His words hit me as I sat alone in a clinic, having just lost our baby.

He hung up. The dial tone buzzed in the silent room. I wasn't just a placeholder; I was a tool.

I looked down at my phone, where the number for my lawyer was already saved, and pressed call.

Chapter 1

Hailey Wall POV:

My life as a fashion influencer, with nearly a million followers, felt like a perfectly curated dream. I'd built it from scratch, every stitch, every pose, every late-night edit. My husband, Austen, was the stable, handsome anchor in that dream, even if he was hilariously, spectacularly bad with a camera. Or so I thought.

"Babe, my face is literally blurring into the background," I sighed, adjusting the silk scarf for the tenth time.

Austen peered through the viewfinder, his brow furrowed in a caricature of concentration. "It's… artistic? Like, a soft focus vibe."

I dropped the scarf, letting it pool around my shoulders. "It's blurry, Austen. It looks like I took this picture with my feet."

He lowered the camera, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Okay, maybe a little blurry. But your feet are very talented, baby."

I loved him. I really did. His corporate job, his steady presence, his apparent inability to capture anything other than abstract blobs when I needed a crisp shot for a brand deal. It was endearing, part of his charm. My pragmatic self had always appreciated his stable, non-glamorous life. It grounded me.

"Just stand still for one second, please," I pleaded, trying to angle my phone and capture the light myself. "We're losing the golden hour."

He shrugged, coming over to lean against me, his arm wrapping around my waist. "My job is to look handsome next to you, not to actually work the camera."

A wave of affection, mixed with a familiar frustration, washed over me. I' d learned to rely on my own team, my own skills. His clumsy attempts had become an inside joke, a testament to how different our worlds were.

Later that evening, after another long day of shooting with my actual photographer, I scrolled through my feed. A candid shot of Austen and me, taken by a fan at a charity gala, had gone viral. It was actually a decent photo, capturing a rare, unguarded moment of us laughing.

My finger hovered over the comments. Usually, they were