Chapter 2
Samantha
The house felt like a tomb.
I curled up on the leather sofa, my silk robe barely covering my legs as I stared at my phone for the hundredth time. Ryan's last message still glowed on the screen: [Isabella needs me urgently. Will make it up to you.]
The Pacific stretched endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, as black as my mood. Only the fireplace cast restless shadows across the room, but even its warmth couldn't touch the cold knot forming in my chest.
I paced the length of the living room. That's when I noticed it—Ryan's Leica camera sitting forgotten on the coffee table. My fingertips brushed against its cold metal surface, and suddenly the shutter clicked.
My body moved without permission, arching slightly, chin tilted up, lips parted.
'What the hell?'
I froze, staring at my reflection in the dark window.
"Why do I want to... when I hear that sound?" I whispered to myself. "God, I must be losing it."
I picked up the framed photo of Ryan and me from our Tuscany trip, tracing his smile with my thumb. "Baby, when are you coming home? I made your favorite pasta... it's probably cold now."
I was halfway up the stairs when my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: [See the truth. He never loved you. -A friend]
Below the message was a link. My finger hovered over it, heart hammering against my ribs. Every instinct screamed "don't click it", but something darker whispered "you need to know".
The link opened to a video file. At first, the image was blurry, but slowly it sharpened into focus.
A private photography studio, all red silk curtains and professional lighting. Intimate. Expensive. Familiar.
"What is this? Where is Ryan shooting?" My voice cracked in the empty house.
The camera angle widened, and there he was. Ryan, with his back to the lens, a camera in his hands. But he wasn't alone.
She emerged from behind a silk screen like something out of a dream.
Isabella. Even through the grainy video, I could see why Ryan had never gotten over her. She looked like me, but... better. More refined. More elegant. Like I was a rough sketch and she was the masterpiece.
Ryan set down the camera and pulled her into his arms. Their kiss was hungry, desperate.
"She's just a substitute I used to miss you," Ryan's voice came through crystal clear. "Now that you're back, she's useless."
The words hit me like physical blows. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles went white.
Isabella laughed, that musical sound I'd heard on the phone earlier. "But she looks like me, doesn't that weird you out?"
"That's exactly why I chose her. But she's just a cheap copy. You're the original, the only one."
Isabella looked directly into the camera then, as if she knew I was watching. Her smile was pure poison as she slowly mouthed "I won" and blew a kiss at the lens.
I slammed the phone shut and collapsed onto the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably.
Three years of believing he loved me, that I was special, that what we had was real.
"I thought he loved me... I'm just a fucking substitute," I sobbed into my hands.
I stumbled to the bathroom, my vision blurred with tears. In the medicine cabinet, behind the moisturizers and serums, sat my bottle of Ambien. I'd been having trouble sleeping lately—now I knew why.
The pills rattled as I shook two into my palm. Then three.
"Just one more tonight. I need to sleep. I need to forget," I whispered, reading the warning label through my tears.
I dry-swallowed them and crawled into our king-sized bed, pulling Ryan's pillow against my chest. It still smelled like his cologne.
"Maybe tomorrow this will all be a nightmare."
The Ambien hit me like a sledgehammer, dragging me into a hazy half-sleep. Through the fog, I heard it again—that distinctive "click" of the Leica's shutter, echoing from downstairs.
My legs felt like jelly as I made my way down to the living room. The camera sat exactly where I'd left it. Ryan still wasn't home.
With trembling fingers, I scrolled through the camera's memory. Photo after photo of Isabella filled the small screen. Intimate shots, artistic nudes, her body positioned exactly how Ryan had never photographed mine.
"Isabella... Isabella..." I murmured, my voice thick with medication and despair. "Why is she more beautiful than me?"
I stared at the photos until my eyes burned. "These pictures... he never shot me like this... never looked at me the way he's looking at her through this lens."
The camera slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table.
But for the past three years, hadn't I been Ryan's perfect model and girlfriend?
The former playboy had been devoted to me alone during that time, photographing only me. Who was Isabella anyway?
Even if I was just a replacement, Ryan belonged to me now.