Chapter 3
Samantha
I woke up with the kind of headache that felt like my skull was being split open with an axe.
The California morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making my red, swollen eyes sting even more.
The taste of Ambien still lingered bitterly in my mouth, and the events of last night hit me.
Isabella. Ryan. That fucking video.
The soft sound of the bedroom door opening made me freeze.
Ryan appeared, balancing a breakfast tray in one hand and a bouquet of white roses in the other, his face painted with that perfect expression of concern and guilt I'd seen a thousand times before.
"Baby, I'm so sorry about last night," he whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Isabella had a panic attack, I couldn't abandon her."
I stared at him through my puffy eyes, feeling like I was drowning. "I saw the video...someone sent me a video of you two..."
His face immediately shifted to shock, and for a split second, I almost believed it was genuine. "What video? Baby, someone is trying to sabotage us. Don't believe everything you see online."
That's when I noticed the Nikon D850 he'd placed on the bedside table, its black body gleaming in the morning light.
"I want to capture this moment," he said softly, lifting the camera. "This new beginning for us."
The sound of the Nikon's shutter was crisp and sweet, and before I could stop myself, my lips curved into a smile. It felt automatic, like breathing. My body seemed to melt into a more graceful position against the pillows, and suddenly I felt... safe. Loved.
"This is my real girlfriend," Ryan murmured, continuing to shoot. "Beautiful, natural, perfect."
Click. Click.
Each sound sent warmth through my chest. I tilted my head, letting my hair fall softly over my shoulder, completely forgetting about Isabella and the video and everything that had shattered me just hours ago.
"I feel so happy when you photograph me like this..." I heard myself say, voice soft and dreamy.
"See? The camera doesn't lie. It captures truth. And the truth is I love YOU."
Click.
Another wave of bliss. God, why did I ever doubt him?
By afternoon, Ryan led me to his private photography studio—a room I'd been in countless times but somehow felt new today. The walls displayed his camera collection like precious artifacts, each with its own little label noting its "significance."
"Remember our first date?" He gestured to the Canon 5D Mark IV. "I used this to capture your shy smile at that little café in West Hollywood."
My heart swelled. I did remember that day, how nervous I'd been, how he'd made me feel like the most beautiful woman alive.
"And this one..." He touched the Leica Q2 reverently. "I've been saving it for our wedding photos."
Tears pricked my eyes. "Really?"
"I want to learn photography to match you better," I whispered, throwing my arms around him. "Will you teach me?"
"Of course, baby. You're such a natural model. It's like you instinctively know what each camera wants."
He started testing different cameras, and something magical happened.
When the Canon clicked, my body automatically shifted into a professional pose—chin up, shoulders back, eyes fierce.
The Leica's sharper sound made me feel sultry and confident, arching my back slightly, letting my lips part just so.
But the Nikon... the Nikon made me feel like a princess, soft and sweet and utterly content.
"Really? Maybe I do have talent! It feels so natural with you," I laughed, delighted by my own abilities.
Ryan smiled, but there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite read.
Everything was perfect until 11:30 that night.
We were curled up on the couch when that fucking ringtone went off. But this time, Ryan didn't rush to leave. Instead, he answered the video call right there in the living room.
"Isabella, what's wrong?" His voice immediately softened to that tender tone I'd heard before.
I could see her face on his phone screen—stunning, with perfect makeup even at this late hour. Her eyes were red, but she was definitely not crying from panic.
"Ryan, darling, I've been thinking about our afternoon yesterday," Isabella purred in accented English. "Your little replacement looked so sweet sleeping on the couch when I left. Does she always sleep so deeply after your... sessions?"
My blood turned to ice. She had been here? In our house?
"Isabella, not now," Ryan glanced nervously at me.
"Oh, she's there?" Isabella's laugh was like broken glass. "Hello, sweetheart! Ryan's told me so much about his little project. Three years of training, and you still don't know, do you?"
"Show her, Ryan," Isabella's voice commanded through the phone. "Take out your Nikon."
"Isabella, this isn't—"
"Do it. I want to see if your conditioning really works."
Ryan reluctantly picked up the Nikon, his hands shaking slightly. "Baby, maybe we should go to bed..."
But Isabella's voice cut through. "Take her picture, Ryan. Show me how well you've trained your little doll."
Click.
The moment the shutter sound hit my ears, that automatic smile spread across my face. I couldn't stop it. Even knowing Isabella was watching, even feeling humiliated, my body responded like a fucking puppet.
"Perfect!" Isabella clapped her hands in delight. "She really can't help herself, can she? Try the Canon now."
"Please stop," I whispered, but when Ryan lifted the Canon—
My spine straightened, chin lifted, eyes focused. Professional pose, perfect and mindless.
Isabella's laughter filled the room. "Pavlov would be so proud. Three years of this, and she thinks it's love."
Tears were streaming down my face, but every time a camera clicked, I smiled. I couldn't control it. My body betrayed me over and over again.
"The best part," Isabella continued, "is that she'll never be able to stop. Even now, knowing the truth, she can't resist. Can you, pet?"
Ryan lowered the camera, looking sick. "Isabella, enough."
"One more," she insisted. "Use the Leica. I want to see her sexy pose while she's crying. It's delicious."
"No," I sobbed, backing away. "Please, no more."
But Ryan lifted the Leica anyway.
And there I was—arching my back, lips parted, looking sultry and seductive while tears poured down my cheeks. The contradiction was grotesque.
"Beautiful," Isabella breathed. "Send me those photos, darling. I want to frame them."
After Ryan finally ended the call, I sat on the bathroom floor, staring at my reflection.
My face was puffy from crying, but I looked... pretty. Photogenic, even in my misery.
I heard the faint sound of a camera shutter from somewhere in the house—probably Ryan's phone camera taking pictures of something.
And instantly, my face tried to smile. Even knowing what it meant, even hating myself for it, my facial muscles moved automatically.
I was trapped inside my own body, trained like a dog to respond to sounds. Three years of this.
I picked up Ryan's travel camera from the bathroom counter, a small point-and-shoot.
Click.
Sweet smile. Head tilt. Bright eyes.
"Stop it," I whispered to my reflection. "Stop fucking smiling."
Click.
Another pose, another automatic response.
I was crying and posing simultaneously, my body split between what I felt and what I'd been programmed to do. The most horrifying part? Even knowing the truth, the camera sounds still made me feel a twisted sort of happiness deep down.
I was broken. Completely, irreparably broken.
And tomorrow, I'd probably smile and pose all over again.