Chapter 4
Samantha
I was preparing breakfast for Ryan in our kitchen. After Isabella's video call last night, we hadn't spoken, but I told myself everything would be okay.
My phone suddenly exploded with notifications.
Instagram, Twitter, TMZ—alerts bombing my screen like grenades.
I casually opened one notification, and my entire world collapsed instantly.
TMZ's headline blazed in blood-red letters: "[Ryan Mitchell Rekindles Romance with Paris Supermodel Isabella Laurent in Passionate Airport Kiss.]
The accompanying photo was a high-definition paparazzi shot: Ryan holding Isabella tight, locked in a passionate kiss. Timestamp: Last night, 1:45 AM.
With shaking fingers, I dialed Ryan: "Baby, there are photos online... can you explain..."
"I'm busy. We'll talk later." His voice was cold as ice before he hung up.
I sat on the living room sofa clutching my laptop, the screen reflecting my increasingly pale face. Social media had completely exploded.
[Finally he dumped the fake version for the real deal.]
[Girl needs to learn when to let go. Embarrassing.]
[Poor substitute girlfriend, finally dumped.]
[Cheap knockoff Isabella, the difference is too obvious.]
Someone had doxxed my personal information, mocking my background and education. I frantically deleted comments, but there were too many—spreading like a virus.
Finally, I closed all social media platforms.
"They don't understand... he loves me... this must be a misunderstanding..." I cried, hugging my knees.
The sound of the black Porsche's engine tore through the afternoon silence. Ryan stormed in furiously, clutching printed copies of all the news reports.
"You fucking leaked our private business to the press! Are you insane?" His face was flushed red, veins bulging.
"I would never do that! I love you, why would I hurt you?" I cried, trying to defend myself.
"Then explain how they knew exactly where we were!"
I wanted to explain, but he had already discovered the antidepressant bottle on my vanity.
"Even your fucking depression pills! Isabella has anxiety, so you copy that too?" His mockery cut deeper than knives.
"I'm not copying anyone! I'm just... I'm just trying to survive!"
Then, in the center of the living room—
The sharp sound of the slap echoed throughout the entire room.
I sat on the floor covering my swollen cheek, blood from my nose dripping onto the white carpet, forming dark red stains.
"Oh shit... Sam... I didn't mean to..." Ryan was immediately shocked, frantically grabbing tissues to stop the bleeding.
But I could see the anger still hadn't completely faded from his eyes.
"Baby, I'm so sorry. I just... seeing Isabella hurt makes me crazy. You know I love you." He knelt down to apologize.
"I know... you're just protecting someone you care about..." I choked out, the metallic taste of blood spreading in my mouth.
Ryan brought out that precious Hasselblad camera.
"This is us making up. This is us stronger than before." He spoke while taking photos.
Click.
Even with blood still on my face, even with my nose still aching, that familiar shutter sound made me smile involuntarily. My body automatically adjusted positions, cooperating with his shoot.
"Please don't leave me..." I whispered pleadingly. "I didn't leak anything, I swear."
As the sun set, orange-red light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the living room. I noticed a drop of blood on the Hasselblad lens.
"The lens has blood on it..." I said softly.
"It's just a drop. The camera still captures your beauty." Ryan answered carelessly.
I gently wiped the blood stain clean with my sleeve, looking at the camera's display screen showing my swollen face and forced smile.
"He's right... even hurt, I still love him. This proves our love is real." I thought silently.
Ryan reviewed the photos with satisfaction: "See? Even when you're hurt, you're still beautiful."
"Ryan, please don't leave me," I grabbed his hand. "I can change, I can become better, like Isabella..."
"Baby, I'm not going anywhere," he gently touched my cheek, "but you have to stop this crazy behavior."
In the master bathroom, I treated the wounds on my face in front of the mirror. The pale lighting made everything look so cold.
"He didn't mean it. He's just stressed about his career." I practiced smiling at my reflection.
I poured more antidepressants from the bottle: "Just two tonight. I need to be strong for him."
Back in the bedroom, I looked at the "reconciliation photos" the Hasselblad had taken, telling myself this was proof of our love.
"See? We're okay. Love isn't always perfect, but it's real."
I fell asleep holding the camera, its metal surface still warm with the temperature of my blood.
'He loves me. Cameras never lie.'
Do they?