Page 62 of Impulse Control
I processed that in a half-second and nodded. “Okay.”
René’s gaze sharpened, as if he’d expected resistance. Or questions. Or hesitation. Maybe I’d surprised him.
“You’ve never done a night shoot,” he said.
“No,” I agreed.
“You will stay close,” he continued. “You will watch the light. You will not guess.” A beat. “You willnotapologize.”
Something in my chest lifted and tightened at the same time.
“What time?” I asked.
He glanced at his watch. “We load in at nineteen hundred. On location by twenty.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Cancel any plans.”
The words landed cleanly. No cruelty. No judgment. Just fact.
“Understood,” I said.
René nodded once, already turning away. “Good. Bring fast glass.”
That was it.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the newsroom noise rushing back in around me. My phone felt heavier in my pocket now—not buzzing, not demanding, just present.
Drinks. A quiet place. Good wine.
I opened my phone, went to her message where she’d hearted my last reply, and typed:
Sorry, have to cancel. Something came up at work. Night shoot. Maybe next time.
I sent it before I could soften the edges or explain myself further.
Then I closed it out, exhaled slowly, and began to reorganize my bag—packing the disappointment away with practiced efficiency. Extra batteries. Memory cards. Lens choices shifting in my head as the light outside the windows thinned from gray to something darker.
This was new territory.
When I finally shut down my computer and slung my camera bag over my shoulder, the day had fully given way to evening. Paris waited outside, wet pavement catching streetlight like it had been rehearsing for this all along.
I followed René out into the night. We didn’t take the metro—he had a car waiting. The trip was swift even with traffic, and at least the rain had stopped fully, though the clouds still hung low. It was going to be dark, but maybe not wet.
“Stay close,” René said after the car dropped us off, a reminder of his earlier orders.
I didn’t reply. He didn’t need it. I was about to be so close I’d look like his shadow.
Just before we stepped into the glow of the location lights—before the work truly began—I paused. Heart racing. Mind sharp. Everything I’d chosen pressing in close.
Then I crossed the threshold.
Chapter
Thirteen
RACHEL
The location was a convertedhôtel particulier—a grand, luxurious town mansion—tucked behind an unassuming street, its courtyard lit by strings of bulbs and the spill from tall windows thrown open to the air. Inside, everything glowed. Velvet draped over antique chairs, mirrors catching movement and multiplying it, polished floors reflecting skin and silk and shadow.
René moved through it like a conductor stepping onto his podium. “Camera,” he said without turning.
