His Shutter Fucked It All

Samantha

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like you to meet my muse, my everything—Samantha." Ryan's hand rested possessively on my shoulder, his touch both sweet and slightly overwhelming. "Tonight is about celebrating her incredible talent."

I stood in front of my photography series, wearing the white silk dress Ryan had carefully chosen for me, trying to maintain an elegant smile as guests praised my work.

Gallery owner Charles approached with professional admiration gleaming in his eyes. "These photos are incredibly intimate, Samantha. You've captured something raw about identity."

I glanced at my series "Mirrors and Truth" hanging on the walls—all exploring themes of identity and self-recognition.

How ironic that would become, though I didn't know it yet.

"Thank you, Charles. This series means everything to me," I said, raising my champagne glass to ease the inexplicable tension building in my chest.

Ryan whispered in my ear, "You look absolutely stunning tonight, baby." His lips brushed my temple as guests around us chuckled warmly.

Everything felt perfect, like a carefully orchestrated fairy tale.

Until 8:30 PM, when that damn phone rang.

It was a special ringtone—one I'd never heard Ryan use for anyone else. The bustling gallery seemed to disappear from his awareness as his face went pale, and he rushed toward a corner to answer.

"Hello?" His voice trembled slightly.

I could only make out a woman's crying voice on the other end, though I couldn't understand the words, the desperation in her sobs made my heart race.

"Don't cry, I'm coming right now." Ryan repeated those words with a tenderness and urgency I'd never heard from him before.

After hanging up, he rushed back to me in a panic, even forgetting his precious Canon camera on the display table.

"Baby, there's an urgent work situation I need to handle. Can you take care of the guests?" He avoided my eyes, leaving a perfunctory kiss on my cheek.

"What kind of work is so urgent?" I grabbed his arm, feeling the tension in his body.

"Just business. I'll be back as soon as possible." He was already looking for his coat.

And then he was gone, leaving me alone to face an atmosphere that was gradually becoming uncomfortable.

Whispers began spreading through the crowd.

"Isabella Laurent is back? No wonder Ryan looked so panicked." A woman in a Chanel suit spoke in hushed tones.

"Poor Sam," another voice chimed in. "She has no idea she's just a replacement, does she?"

My heart started pounding violently. 'Isabella? She's back?'

"Three years, and Ryan still can't get over Isabella's shadow," a third voice joined. "Her comeback at Paris Fashion Week caused quite a sensation in the fashion world."

I forced myself to keep smiling, constantly checking my phone for any message from Ryan. But there was nothing.

By 10 PM, the gallery had grown quiet. Los Angeles nightscape cast faint light through the floor-to-ceiling windows as I stood alone before my photography series, staring ironically at the theme "Mirrors and Truth."

Finally, my phone buzzed.

[Baby sorry, Isabella back from Paris, she needs me urgently. Will make it up to you. Promise.]

I stared at this cold, brief text, feeling like I'd been slapped across the face. Isabella. That name now blazed in my mind like a warning signal.

A camera shutter clicked in the distance—probably some photographer wrapping up.

Strangely, hearing that sound made me want to pose, my body almost reflexively adjusting its posture.

Just professional habit, right? I told myself, but the unease in my heart grew stronger.

I looked around at my photographs about identity recognition, and they now seemed to mock me.

Mirrors and truth? I didn't even know my real place in Ryan's heart.

'What the fuck is Isabella coming back for?'

That question echoed in my mind, accompanied by another crisp shutter sound in the distance. And there I stood in this empty gallery, like a forgotten exhibit piece.

The jazz music had stopped. The champagne had gone flat. And somewhere across the city, Ryan was rushing to comfort another woman whose tears meant more to him than my entire evening of triumph.

I touched one of my photographs—a self-portrait exploring the question of authentic identity.

In the reflection of the glass covering, I saw myself: beautiful, successful, completely alone.

And for the first time, I wondered if I really knew who I was at all.