Page 24 of Letters From Victor

I moved toward the windows, drawn to the vast Pacific stretching endlessly to the horizon. The water sparkled like a blanket of diamonds under the golden sun. Frothy white-capped waves curled and crashed rhythmically against the rocky shore.

I was keenly aware of Victor’s presence behind me. My skin prickled, every nerve ending attuned to his nearness and the heat of his body. I swallowed hard, forcing the flutter in my stomach to settle, and kept my eyes trained on the vista, though I could see his reflection in the glass.

“Is Mrs. Cardello home?” I smoothed an invisible crease from my dress.

Victor’s reflection shifted slightly, amusement flickering across his features. “No, Mrs. Cardello isn’t here. She prefers our home in Pasadena.” He paused, seeming to choose his next words carefully. “We’ve kept separate residences for some time now. It suits us both.”

Heat crept up my neck at the implication. Excitement and shame churned low in my stomach. I fixed my gaze on the ocean, watching a seabird coast on a wind current, its wings outstretched. Silence pooled between us, charged with unspoken words.

Victor cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

Relieved for the shift in conversation, I turned to face him with a smooth smile. “Please. Lead the way.”

He showed me the sleek, modern kitchen—crisp white appliances in clean, rounded lines. From there, Victor led me down a hallway lined with framed black-and-white photographs. I paused before a striking image—an abandoned gas station, its paint-chipped sign fading into the barren desert beneath an endless sky. The composition was masterful, the play of light and shadow evoking a sense of lonely desolation.

“Did you take these?” I asked, moving to another—the weathered remains of a sagging, dilapidated barn, captured in exquisite detail.

“I did,” Victor confirmed, stepping beside me. “Photography is a passion of mine. Has been since I was a boy.”

I glanced at him, seeing him in a new light. “You have a remarkable eye.” I moved to the next photo—a child with twin braids down her back, weaving a straw basket. Her dress was ragged at the edges, patched in places, yet she looked content. “The textures, the tones, the emotion you draw from them—it’s moving.”

Victor dipped his head slightly in a rare show of humility. “Thank you, Barbara. It means a great deal to me to hear you say that.” He eyed me silently for a moment, then took a sharp breath and moved closer. “If you like my work, I’d like to show you something.”

We walked in silence down the hallway, stopping at the last door. Victor hesitated, resting his hand on the brass knob. “This”—he eased the door open and stood back, gesturing for me to enter—“is my sanctuary.”

The room felt worlds apart from the rest of the house—intimate, dimly lit, wrapped in rich textures and dark wood. Heavy black velvet drapes covered an entire wall. A pristine white backdrop stood against the opposite wall, flanked by tripods and lighting rigs in an organized chaos.

Victor entered the studio with quiet reverence, his fingers laced together in front of him. He moved to a table along the back wall and lifted a large leather portfolio.

“Other than what I have framed, these are some of my favorite works.” He opened the portfolio with care, turning it to face me. Inside lay a series of striking black-and-white photographs, each matted and boldly signedVC.

I drew closer, spellbound. A lonely dock reaching out into a misty harbor, an empty park bench framed by bare trees, a little girl in a window gazing out at the rain—all were imbued with a haunting beauty. Victor’s mastery of composition, light, and shadow made the ordinary hauntingly beautiful.

“What do you think?” Victor asked, his voice low.

“Victor, these are exquisite.” My fingers hovered over the photographs, instinctively careful not to touch. “I can feel your passion in every detail.” I looked up and met his gaze, my heartbeat quickening.

Victor moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “There is one thing missing, though.” He reached out, his fingers gently brushing back a lock of my hair. “A subject worthy of immortalizing.”

My lips parted, but no words came. His touch left a trail of fire on my skin.

Victor tilted his head, studying my features. “Let me photograph you, Barbara. Please,” he said, his voice low, his eyes burning.

My chest tightened as I stared at him. Every instinct told me to say no, to flee this room and put as much distance between us as I could. But there was something in his gaze that pinned me in place.

Slowly, I nodded.

Victor’s eyes lit up, and a smile curved his lips. He gave my hand a light squeeze and led me to a simple wooden stool in front of the backdrop. He glided around the space—flipping on lights, adjusting rigs, loading a fresh roll of film in his camera.

I perched there, frozen, heart racing. What was I doing? This was madness.

“Just be yourself,” he said gently as he adjusted the lights. “You’re no novice at this.”

I drew in a slow breath, willing myself to relax as Victor studied me through the lens with an artist’s eye, taking in every detail. The bright lights illuminated my face, and I felt exposed, vulnerable. Victor moved silently, angling and filtering the lights just so until the glow was soft and diffused.

“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. He crouched down, eyes sharp behind the viewfinder. I held still,watching him. His strong, elegant hands delicately manipulated the focus ring. A stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and he swept it back absently, consumed by his craft.

My pulse thrummed as his eyes met mine again over the top of the camera. “Don’t look at the lens. Look at me,” Victor commanded. His voice was low, intimate. Click. Our gazes locked, and the rest of the world fell away. Click. It was just the two of us suspended in this moment. Click.

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