Eliza's POV
I watched the hospital's rear exit melt into the dark as Nate's car disappeared around the bend, the taillights shrinking into two red pinpricks. For a delicious second I felt the familiar surge — the one I always get when a plan slides into place and the first domino tips. The night air smelled faintly of rain and exhaust and, under it, the metallic tang of adrenaline. I breathed it in like a drug.
The photographer had done exactly what I asked: discreet, quick, the perfect angle to make intimacy where none existed. A camera doesn't lie — it only tells what you ask it to show. I'd asked for a story, and he'd delivered.
I folded my hands in my lap and smiled without moving my lips. There's an art to this work, and I've been practicing it longer than most people learn
