Chapter 3
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This was her only territory in Alex's "empire"—a chaotic corner untouched by minimalist designers. She opened the door and inhaled the dusty yet familiar scent of desiccants and old leather. Crouching down, she felt her way past skis and camping gear until her fingers found a large Pelican case marked with yellow tape.
On the tape, her handwriting had faded but remained legible—"SYRIA".
The case weighed a ton. She didn't remove it completely, just released the heavy clasps. Inside lay her old press credentials and notebooks filled with cramped writing, with equipment carefully nestled in foam beneath. She lifted out a hard drive labeled "Aleppo-2021-Master" before her eyes settled on the bottom of the case.
There sat a Hasselblad medium format camera—black body with silver viewfinder, covered in tiny scratches and wear marks like medals on an old soldier. Her father, legendary war photographer David Easton, had left it to her. He'd taught her composition and light, taught her to fight against forgetting with a lens, but never taught her how to cope with an empty home. This camera was one of his few possessions that still held warmth.
She carried the cold hard drive back to the study like a pallbearer with an urn. Computer connected, files opened.
No flashy effects or stirring soundtrack like Alex's PowerPoints. Just wind moaning through Aleppo's ruins. The camera moved with terrifying steadiness, panning across a bombed mosque where a double amputee sat expressionless on rubble, smoking. Then cutting to a shelter where a five-year-old boy carefully divided a crust of bread to share with his sister.
The smell of gunpowder and adrenaline seemed to seep through the screen, gripping her throat. Her heart raced, hammering against her ribs. This was her. Not the "stable asset" in Alex's blueprint or the Lena who selected perfect dinner menus. This was her true self—a woman who had walked through hell and brought back evidence.
She leaned back in the cold ergonomic chair with a bitter laugh. If Alex saw these, what corporate jargon would he use to evaluate this "risk exposure" in his precious "Life Blueprint"?
The Met Charity Gala serves as an unspoken battleground for New York's financial and artistic elite. Lena, in her perfectly tailored black gown on Alex's arm, resembled a flawless sculpture—quiet, elegant, speaking only when necessary. She was the crucial piece in Alex's "stable, mature founder" persona.
Alex was visibly pleased. He whispered in her ear, introducing each power player she needed to remember, his tone carrying the pride of a man surveying his kingdom.
Until Chloe appeared.
She exploded into the room like a grenade in still water. Her shocking red gown flared like actual flames. The moment she entered, every eye turned to her. That quality she possessed—a cocktail of raw talent and reckless abandon—was the rarest currency in this stuffy gathering.
All night, everyone buzzed about Chloe—her sensational new work at the Venice Biennale, her wild, performance-art travels. Meanwhile, Lena remained a beautiful, silent shadow beside Alex.
