Page 11 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"Look slightly left," I instruct, adjusting the lighting. "We want these to look candid, like someone caught you unaware. They’re for social media spoofs.”

"Shouldn't be hard," Elena says with a wan smile. "Being caught unaware is basically our life now."

Her words hit harder than she probably intended. I think of Marcus in that hallway, the shock in his eyes when he saw me. The way neither of us was prepared for that collision of past and present. Was I just one in an unending chain of nasty surprises?

James is next, his movements still careful around his healing wound. He's quiet during his session, but his eyes are sharp, observant. When I show him the first set of photos, his approval is thoughtful.

"You have a gift," he says, studying the images. "For capturing people as they really are."

"That's not always a good thing," I reply, thinking of all the harsh truths I've documented over the years. War zones. Natural disasters. The aftermath of supernatural violence.

He looks at me then, really looks, and something in his expression makes me wonder how much he knows about me and Marcus. About what happened five years ago.

"Sometimes the truth is necessary," is all he says.

Through it all, Byron works his digital magic, building layers of deception. Each photo becomes a story—Elena at a café in Seattle, James walking through Chicago, casual moments that never happened but look real enough to fool anyone scanning social media. We're creating a trail of breadcrumbs leading away from Rosecreek, away from the truth.

"The trick," Byron explains as we review the day's work, "is in the details. Not just the big things, but the little ones. The coffee cup brand in the background. The weather matching actual conditions. The timestamp correlating with real events. They’ll be looking at the trees. We don’t want them to see the forest."

I lean closer, fascinated despite myself. "Like building a perfect lie."

"Like a perfect photograph," he corrects. “You know about that.”

His words follow me home that evening, echoing in my head as I sort through the day's shots.A perfect photograph.Each image tells a story, but not the whole story. Just like the careful distance Marcus and I maintain, passing one another like ghosts in the pack center's halls, never quite meeting each other's eyes.

I wonder what story those moments tell. What truth hides behind our careful avoidance.

The rain hasn't stopped, turning Half Moon Lake into a slate mirror that reflects the clouded sky. From Rafael's kitchen window, I watch droplets trace patterns on the glass, forming and reforming like thoughts I can't seem to shake.

"The rain isn’t going to tell you its secrets if you stare at it long enough," Rafael says from behind me, his voice gentle but knowing.

I snort. “Maybe if I just try for a little longer.

He comes up to my shoulder and hands me a mug of tea—chamomile, my favorite. "Want to talk about it?"

For a moment, I'm tempted. I want to tell him everything—about Marcus, our history, and the way seeing him again feels like reopening a wound I thought had healed. But the words stick in my throat.

"Just thinking about the project," I say instead. "It's... complicated."

I’m sure I’ll tell him soon. We tell each other everything. But today, I just can’t.

Rafael studies me over his mug; I know he sees more than I'm saying. But he doesn't push, and I love him for that.

"Well," he says finally, "if you need anything..."

"I know." I manage a smile that feels almost real. "Thanks, Raf."

***

Morning brings Asher to my makeshift studio, his expression more serious than usual.

"Marcus wants an update on our progress," he says without preamble, watching my reaction carefully. "He'll be stopping by later."

My hands still on my camera.

"Alright," I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds. "It's his operation."

Asher's silence speaks volumes. After a week of working together, I've learned to read the weight of his pauses.

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