Chapter 2

As the plane taxied down the runway, I kept my eyes glued to the lights outside.

So regular. So orderly. Nothing like the chaos churning inside me.

A dull ache radiated from my lower abdomen. Instinctively, I pressed my hand protectively against it.

Two weeks ago, when I saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, I was shocked and thrilled. I'd even planned how to tell Noah—under the Northern Lights in Iceland, a perfect surprise.

Now that surprise had become the cruelest joke.

The timing was almost laughably "perfect."

I know the comment count had already jumped to over a hundred thousand. My followers were going crazy over my farewell post, desperate to know what happened.

Eight years. Just like that, over.

It would be a lie to say it didn't hurt. But right now, all I wanted was to get as far away from Noah Cross and his 19-year-old girl as possible. Let them enjoy each other's young bodies—apparently I'd become "aesthetically fatigued."

The plane began accelerating, the roar of the engines grating on my nerves. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself, but my mind refused to cooperate. Instead, it started replaying scenes I'd rather forget.

2013, University of Southern California. Final project presentation for journalism class.

I stood at the podium, looking at the photography portfolio displayed by the tall guy in the front row. Without hesitation, I said: "These photos show excellent technique and composition, but they lack a story."

Whispers rippled through the classroom. Everyone thought I was too blunt. But that's who I was—I'd rather tell the truth and offend people than offer empty flattery.

After class, as I was packing up to leave, a voice came from behind me:

"You said my photos lack story. Would you be willing to teach me what story means?"

I turned around to see a face full of genuine curiosity. That was Noah—the man who would become the most important person in my life, and the one who would hurt me the most.

"Are you sure you want the truth?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Absolutely."

I looked him straight in the eye: "Your photos are like beautiful shells—all surface, no soul. Real photography should capture emotion and narrative, not chase perfect technical parameters."

To my surprise, he didn't get defensive. Instead, his gaze grew more focused.

"Would you work with me then? For the final project. You do the writing, I'll do the shooting."

I considered for exactly one second: "Fine. But I have conditions—we do it my way."

That week of collaboration changed the trajectory of my life.

3 AM, school cafeteria. Just the two of us.

I typed rapidly while Noah watched me. Every time I glanced up, I caught him staring.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" Heat crept up my cheeks.

"I'm thinking... you're particularly beautiful when you're focused on your writing."

My face burned. I quickly turned back to the screen.

"Done." I spun the laptop around. "What do you think of this copy with your photos?"

Noah read for a few minutes, then looked up with something in his eyes I'd never seen before.

"Ella..." His voice trembled slightly. "Your words gave my photos a soul."

My heart raced. I didn't know what to say.

Then he took a deep breath, gathering his courage: "I mean... would you create stories with me? Not just this project, but... a lifetime of stories?"

In that moment, the whole world went quiet.

I looked into his earnest eyes, feeling something inside me begin to melt.

"If you're serious... I'm willing to try."

Noah's smile was radiant, like a kid on Christmas morning. He swept me up and spun me around, completely oblivious to the surprised stares around us.

But that Noah, the one who only had eyes for me, the man whose voice had trembled when he read my words... when did he change?

After graduation, we pooled all our savings to buy a secondhand RV. The seats were torn, the AC was broken. I sat there feeling deflated, but Noah just laughed: "This is what makes it real, Ella. Perfect conditions don't create authentic stories."

That was 2014. Los Angeles summer was brutally hot, but we were burning with ambition.

"Where should we go?" Noah asked.

"Route 66." My eyes sparkled with anticipation. "We're going to photograph the real America, not those cliché tourist spots."

That trip made us. Our article "The American Dream We Found on Route 66" launched us into overnight success.

Late at night, sitting in the RV watching our analytics explode, Noah asked nervously: "Ella, do you think we can make it?"

I leaned against his shoulder, feeling completely secure: "Success isn't the goal—authenticity is. As long as we tell real stories, the audience will feel it."

That night in our beat-up RV, we dreamed about the future, believing those days would last forever.

But success came faster than we imagined.

By 2016, we'd moved into a luxury apartment in downtown LA, with a professional studio and an eight-person team. Millions of followers, major brands lining up for partnerships... everything we'd dreamed of had come true.

Yet I started feeling uneasy.

"Noah, we can't compromise content quality for traffic."

That day I confronted him with a luxury brand partnership proposal. They wanted us to hint in our copy that their watches could bring good fortune—completely against our principles.

"What's wrong?" He turned around, and I noticed his expression had changed. No longer that attentive listener, but carrying a hint of impatience.

"There's a problem with this deal. We've always stood for authenticity..."

"Relax, Ella." He patted my shoulder with a tone of condescending tolerance. "We've already proven ourselves. Catering to the market occasionally isn't a bad thing."

I froze. Was this still the Noah I knew? The man who said my words gave his photos soul?

"Noah, you've changed."

"I haven't changed—I've matured. We need to consider commercial value, we can't live in an idealistic bubble forever."

In that moment, I felt profoundly alone. Standing in that luxury studio, facing this man I didn't recognize anymore, I doubted our future for the first time.

But I told myself this was just inevitable friction on the road to success. We'd get through it.

Until that meeting in 2020, when I realized how wrong I'd been.

"The audience is fatigued. The market needs fresh elements." The brand manager's words set off alarm bells.

"We're recommending a model. 19 years old, named Lily..."

19! I laughed bitterly to myself. Of course. Men hitting middle age always chase younger women.

"We don't need models." I said firmly. "Our content has always been authentic documentation, not performance."

"Ella, we need to change." Noah stared at the analytics report, completely avoiding my eyes. "The audience is tired of our formula."

Formula? Our eight years of genuine emotion had become a formula in his eyes?

"Authenticity never goes out of style, Noah. Do we still remember why we started?"

I looked directly into his eyes, hoping to awaken the man who'd once been moved by my words.

But he still avoided my gaze.

A week later, Lily appeared at the studio door.

19 years old. Long legs, tiny waist. That freshness of youth barely past puberty, her skin still dewy with youth. When she smiled, her eyes crinkled at the corners, her voice had that soft, coquettish tone unique to young girls.

Her arrival was like a knife, cutting away what little remained of our relationship. I watched the way Noah looked at her, that adoring gaze, that rekindled passion...

Once upon a time, he'd looked at me that way.