Chapter 8 Candid Captures

Amelia Noah POV

David waits at the cliff edge with two cameras slung across his chest like weapons or tools, depending on perspective.

"You came," he says, and something in his tone suggests he thought I might not.

"I said maybe." I join him at the railing where the caldera spreads below us, already painted in pre-sunset gold. "Which apparently means yes in my vocabulary now."

"It's a good word, maybe. Leaves room for possibility." He lifts the larger camera, adjusting something on the lens. "Have you ever been photographed professionally?"

"Does a dental school website count?"

His laugh startles a nearby couple from their romantic moment. "Not even remotely. But that's good. I don't want model poses. I want you."

The words land differently than he probably intended. I want you. Like I'm something to be acquired rather than collaborated with.

"Should I be concerned?" I keep my voice light. "That sounds like serial killer talk."

"Probably." He grins, unrepentant. "But I promise my only intention is to make you look spectacular. Which shouldn't be difficult given what I'm working with."

He gestures to the景—no, to me. The compliment delivered so casually it almost doesn't register.

"So how does this work?" I ask. "Do I stand somewhere and smile awkwardly at the camera?"

"God, no. That's how you get terrible catalog photos." He circles me slowly, studying angles with professional focus. "We're going to walk. Talk. You're going to forget I'm here, and I'm going to capture who you are when you're not performing for anyone."

"Bold assumption that I know who that is."

His eyes meet mine over the camera. "Then maybe we'll discover it together."

He starts with the cliffs behind the resort, leading me to a section where white-washed walls meet volcanic rock and wild grasses sway in the wind. The evening light turns everything amber and rose, the kind of illumination that makes even ordinary things beautiful.

"Lean against the wall," he says. "No, not stiff. Like you're waiting for someone. Like you're in no rush."

I adjust my position, feeling awkward and visible.

"Look out at the water. Not at me. Pretend I'm not here."

The click of the shutter feels intrusive at first, each shot a record of my vulnerability. But David keeps talking as he works, his voice low and steady.

"Tell me about New York. What do you miss most?"

"The noise." The answer surprises me with its honesty. "That sounds insane, but I miss the constant sound of the city. Sirens and construction and people arguing in six languages on the subway."

Click. Click.

"What don't you miss?"

"The version of myself I was there." I stare at the horizon where sea meets sky. "The woman who made spreadsheets about whether her boyfriend's behavior patterns indicated emotional unavailability."

Click.

"That's remarkably self-aware." He moves closer, changing lenses with practiced efficiency. "Most people blame the other person entirely."

"Oh, I blame Marcus plenty. But I also blame myself for ignoring every red flag because I wanted so badly to make it work."

Click. Click. Click.

"Look at me now."

I turn, and the camera lens stares back like a dark eye. Behind it, David's expression is unreadable.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. "That's the shot. That vulnerability."

We move to the next location—a narrow path that winds along the cliff edge where the drop feels dizzying and exhilarating. David climbs ahead, then turns back to photograph me navigating the uneven stones.

"Don't watch your feet. Trust the path. Look at me."

I do, and my foot catches on a loose rock. His hand shoots out to steady me, camera still raised in his other hand.

"Sorry," I say. "Not exactly graceful."

"Perfection is boring. I want real." He keeps his hand on my elbow longer than necessary. "Again. Walk toward me. Think about something that makes you happy."

I walk, thinking about my sister's laugh. About the first sip of coffee in the morning. About how the sunset looked from my terrace last night when I was completely alone and completely content.

Click. Click. Click.

"There," David says. "That smile. Whatever you were just thinking about—hold onto that."

We spend an hour moving through locations, each one more stunning than the last. He photographs me against blue-domed churches and cascading bougainvillea, sitting on stone steps and standing at precarious cliff edges, always asking questions that make me forget I'm being documented.

"What's your greatest fear?" he asks at one point.

"Besides falling off these cliffs?"

"Besides that."

I consider the question seriously. "Becoming my mother. She spent forty years making herself smaller for my father, and then he left anyway. I'm terrified I'm repeating her pattern."

Click.

"You're not," David says quietly. "She made herself smaller. You're here. Alone. In Greece. That's the opposite of small."

The validation shouldn't matter this much. But it does.

As sunset approaches, he leads me to a secluded viewpoint where tourists haven't yet discovered. The cliffs drop away dramatically, and the caldera spreads below us like a bowl of liquid gold.

"Last location," he says. "And then I want you to just exist. No posing. No thinking about the camera. Just watch the sunset."

He positions me near the edge—close enough to feel the exposure, far enough to be safe—and steps back. The shutter clicks become a rhythm, background noise to the wind and distant boat engines and the strange intimacy of being seen this way.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he says.

The request is bold, invasive even. I should deflect. Instead, I say: "Sometimes I Google my exes to see if they're happy without me. And I hate myself for hoping they're not."

Click. Click.

"That's human," David says. "Not admirable, but human."

"What about you? What's your secret shame?"

The shutter stops. Silence stretches between us.

"I collect photographs of women who look sad," he finally says. "Not in a creepy way. But there's something about capturing that specific moment when someone's guard is completely down. When they're too lost in their own thoughts to remember they're being watched."

The words send a chill through me despite the warm air. "That sounds a little creepy."

"Probably." He lowers the camera, and his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But art is often uncomfortable. The best portraits are the ones that reveal what people try to hide."

I turn back to the sunset, unsettled. The sun hovers at the horizon now, ready to perform its nightly disappearance.

David moves closer, standing beside me rather than behind the camera. "Thank you for this. For trusting me with your image."

"I haven't seen the results yet. I might look terrible."

"You don't." He says it with certainty. "I've taken two hundred shots, and you look magnificent in every single one."

Two hundred. The number stuns me. Two hundred captures of my face, my body, my unguarded moments.

"That seems like a lot."

"I'm selective when I edit. But I never know which moment will be the perfect one until I review them all." He lifts his camera again, pointing it not at me but at the sunset. "Besides, you're an interesting subject. The camera likes you."

We watch the sun sink into the Aegean together, his shutter clicking occasionally at the sky rather than me. When it finally disappears, leaving only the pink and orange afterglow, I feel strangely bereft.

"That's it?" I ask. "We're done?"

"Unless you want to continue in the moonlight." He's already reviewing images on his camera's display, scrolling with quick, practiced movements. "Actually, yes. Look at this one."

He angles the camera toward me. The image on screen shows a woman I barely recognize—windswept and glowing, staring at something off-camera with an expression that's equal parts hope and melancholy.

"That's me?"

"That's you." He scrolls to another image—me laughing at something he said, my head tilted back, completely unselfconscious. "And this one. And this."

Each photo reveals a version of myself I've never seen. Not the professional headshot version or the carefully curated social media version. Something rawer. More real.

"I look..." I struggle for the right word.

"Alive," David supplies. "You look alive. Like someone who's been holding her breath for months and finally remembered how to exhale."

The accuracy makes my chest tight. "Can I see more?"

"At dinner tomorrow. I'll bring my laptop, show you the full gallery." He packs his cameras with meticulous care. "But fair warning—I'm going to print some of these. There's one in particular that's extraordinary."

"You don't need to do that."

"I know." He meets my eyes, and something in his expression shifts. "But I want to. Consider it a gift. Documentation of who you are in this moment, before you go back to New York and forget."

"Forget what?"

"That you're more than your job title and relationship failures. That you're someone worth capturing on film."

The words should sound romantic. Instead, they sound like possession. Like he's claiming something that belongs to me.

"That's generous," I manage.

"I'm a generous person." His smile is charming, practiced. "Besides, every photographer needs portfolio pieces. You're doing me a favor, really."

We walk back toward the resort as darkness settles over the island. Other guests stream past us toward dinner reservations, their laughter and conversation filling the spaces between our silence.

At the lobby entrance, David pauses. "Tomorrow night. Dinner again? I'll show you the photos, and we can celebrate your successful modeling debut."

"I don't know if standing around while you take pictures counts as modeling."

"It counts." He adjusts his camera bag. "You were perfect. Natural. Exactly what I look for in a subject."

Subject. Not a person. Not Amelia. A subject.

"I'll think about it," I say, and this time maybe means maybe.

In my suite, I stand on the terrace where he photographed me just hours ago. The spot feels different now—marked somehow, claimed. I imagine him reviewing those two hundred images later tonight, cataloging my expressions, studying my unguarded moments.

The thought should feel flattering. Instead, it feels exposing.

My phone buzzes with a text from David: Thank you again for today. You're going to love what we created together.

Created together. Like I was an active participant rather than a subject being documented.

I don't respond immediately. Instead, I open my journal to the page where I wrote his name days ago.

David Sterling, I write beneath it. Makes me feel seen in ways that feel both wonderful and unsettling. Question: Is there a difference between being appreciated and being collected?

I stare at the words, pen hovering over paper, trying to decide if I'm being paranoid or perceptive.

Tomorrow I'll see the photos. Tomorrow I'll know if the woman in those images is someone I recognize or someone he created through angles and light and two hundred attempts to capture whatever he sees when he looks at me.

Tonight, I pull the curtains closed on the terrace.

Just in case he's out there somewhere, camera raised, still watching.