Chapter 5
484words
Chloe's face drained from crimson to chalk-white as tears welled in her beautiful eyes. Rather than arguing, she turned to Alex with a wounded, quivering voice.
"Alex, I... I was only trying to be friendly..." she bit her lip like a wronged child. "I had no idea she'd take it this way..."
With that, she spun away like a storm-damaged rose, gathered her dress, and fled the ballroom on the verge of tears.
Lena's carefully crafted counterattack, neutralized by a masterful performance of vulnerability.
"Go after her, Alex!" A friend immediately nudged him. "A woman alone at night—make sure she's safe!"
"Yes, hurry! You know how fragile Chloe can be!"
Alex's face turned ashen. Ignoring his friends, he shot Lena a look of pure anger and accusation. His eyes screamed: why did you ruin everything? Why did you make this so uncomfortable?
Without a word, he stood and hurried after Chloe.
Whispers crashed around Lena like breaking waves.
"What's her problem? Chloe was just making conversation. Did she have to be so aggressive?"
"So jealous. Typical bitter girlfriend."
"Really unwise to embarrass Alex publicly like that. She'll be the one who suffers in the end..."
The sprawling table with its chaos of plates and glasses stretched before her. Lena stood completely isolated, a deserted island amid the crowd. She grabbed her barely-touched wine and drained it in one swallow.
Back at the apartment, emptiness greeted her. Alex hadn't returned.
Lena left the lights off, letting darkness envelop her, broken only by the city's distant glow through the windows. She returned to the storage room and reopened the Pelican case. This time, she bypassed the hard drive and carefully lifted out the Hasselblad.
She set it on the table, her fingertips tracing each battle scar on its body.
David Easton. Her father. A man who defined an era through his viewfinder, a legend synonymous with "Pulitzer" and "Magnum." He'd documented wars, famines, and revolutions, yet rarely focused on his own daughter.
In Lena's memory, her father existed primarily in absence. His love arrived in perfectly composed postcards from around the world and terse technical instructions during brief intervals between assignments.
"Stop down half a stop. You need sharpness, not cheap bokeh."
"Always manual focus. Trust your eyes over the machine."
"Don't fear getting closer. If your photos aren't good enough, you're not close enough."
These were his parting words when he handed her this Hasselblad—his companion for half his life—before departing on his final assignment. Days later, his name appeared on the list of journalists killed in action.
This camera formed the only warm connection between her and that towering yet distant figure. It became the foundation of her professional ethics, the anchor of her soul.
Lena pressed her cheek against the cold metal body, as if trying to absorb the warmth of another human through its frame.
