The Shot that Stirred the Storm
731 Words
The ballroom of the Langston Estate in Beverly Hills shone like a palace of glass and gold. Crystal chandeliers lit the air with golden warmth, and a quartet made pleasant jazz sounds as Los Angeles’s upper crust mingled with glasses of champagne and polite chatter.
Laughter cut above evening gowns and well-tailored tuxedos to conceal secret plots behind courteous grins.
Killian Stone had spent nothing less than 10 minutes at the event, and he was already bored. He stood by the wall of the room, sipping bourbon out of a glass.
From time to time, a guest would come to him extending a handshake, a practiced smile or offering a compliment. He accepted both as though doing so would have required effort and begrudgingly acknowledged them.
“Killian, sweetie!” A woman who had enough diamonds on her person to purchase a small nation air-kissed his cheek. “I hear your father is just so proud of you.”
“Is he?” Killian inquired coolly, taking a slow sip of his drink.
Her smile slipped.
He moved on.
The only reason he was there tonight was for optics. Stone Global had sponsored the event. His father had insisted that someone from the family make an appearance.
If you’re going to run this business, Killian, Mark Stone had told him, you’d best learn to smile for the public, even when you feel like strangling them in private.
Killian had not smiled the entire evening, he just stood there waiting for the night to be over.
----
The gala was underway when Aria snuck in through the side entrance. Her camera was slung low as she scanned the room cautiously. The waiter drifted by with trays of champagne. The women shone in gowns that could pay her rent. She stepped like a shadow, quiet, slow, and cautious.
“Just go get shots, remain invisible," she muttered to herself.
Click. There is laughter in the atmosphere.
Click. Sharp profile under the chandeliers.
Click. A pair of dancers, too rigid to be lovers.
Aria swung her camera into place and looked at the balcony. A single man was at the railing: his suit flawless, his posture commanding. Something about him- a stillness in the chaotic jumble.
She raised the lens and clicked once more.
Click.
He turned around.
Sharply pointed jaw, steel-like eyes.
He spotted her.
Aria stiffened.
He did not avert his eyes. Rather, he moved in her direction in slow, measured paces, the stride of a man who was aware of power.
"Do you always take pictures without asking?"
His voice was cool. Accusing.
Aria slowly lowered the camera. Poised but firmly composed, she said, "It was a candid moment."
He looks at her face. "Employed by the press?"
"No."
“Then who sent you?”
"Nobody," she said quietly. "I'm freelance. My friend did it for me."
"And you picked me to shoot?"
“I did not decide. The light decided.”
That gave him pause.
He tilted his head. Slightly amused. "What's your name?"
“Aria.”
"Last name?"
“Does it count?”
He scowled at her. Most people would have cracked by now. Backed down. Apologized. But she was unyielding. She was speaking softly but not intimidated.
“Do you know who I am?" he asked.
Aria blinked. "No. Should I?”
His mouth formed somewhat, but the result was not really a smile. "Apparently not."
There was silence.
“Well,” she replied, readjusting her strap, “thanks for the moment.”
She then looked back.
And exited the room.
Killian remained there, rigid as a statue, seeing her go.
From across the room, Killian's assistant, Ed, watched each move with curiosity.
"Did the photographer make an inappropriate comment?" he inquired.
Killian nodded his head slowly. "No. She didn't say anything. And somehow, that said it all."
Ed's eyebrow rose. "A bold move."
Killian remained motionless and maintained his fixed stare. "She did not recognize me. I must have her full name."
Is she trouble? Ed asked hesitantly.
Killian spoke in a low, undecipherable tone. Still to be determined.
***
Outside, Aria dashed toward the station while arranging her coat around herself. Her camera bag thumped softly against her hip.
She exhaled. Whatever that moment was, it was over. She did not know who he was; she did not wish to. And quite frankly, she didn't care.
- Writer
