PROLOGUE: The Camera Never Lies
The moment she undressed, her life started to unravel.
Not because she stripped her clothes.
But because she stripped her mask.
Her name is Eira Vaughn. Thirty. Married. Respected. Feared. But not loved.
People say betrayal is like a knife in the back. For Eira, it wasn't. It was a slow spread of fire between her legs and a whisper behind her ear: "Do you want to be seen?"
Callen Reed didn't just photograph bodies. He captured truths. And the truth?
Eira was already cheating the moment she said yes to a man who wasn't hers… while being owned by a man who never truly saw her.
The affair didn't begin in bed.
It began the first time she moaned without being touched.
CHAPTER 1: Legal Wife, Illegal Thoughts
The Vaughn Penthouse – 43rd floor, glass walls, marble silence, and a husband who hadn't said "I love you" in eight months.
Eira sat at the dining table, swirling her red wine. Alone. Again.
Her phone buzzed.
Julian:"Stuck at the office. Don't wait up."
She didn't reply. What was the point? He was probably stuck inside someone else.
Julian Vaughn was the kind of man who kissed you on the forehead while mentally checking his emails. He provided everything—except the one thing Eira wanted.
Presence.
And yet she stayed married. Out of loyalty? No. Out of pride. She hated being pitied more than being lonely.
A sharp knock echoed from the door. Her assistant had sent her an invitation earlier this week—a gallery opening in the Art District. She didn't RSVP. But a courier stood there now, holding a black envelope with embossed gold lettering:
"You've been chosen. Strip. Pose. Reveal.
Private Viewing Invitation – Callen Reed Studio, 10PM."
Beneath was a handwritten note:
"Your eyes tell a story your lips never do.
I'd like to hear it—without words."
—C.R.
She should've crumpled it. She should've thrown it in the fireplace.
Instead, she found herself in front of her closet, pulling out the black silk dress—the one that hugged her in all the wrong places, which now felt just right.
10:08 PM – Callen Reed's Studio, Warehouse District
Eira stepped out of her car, heels clacking on cracked pavement. The warehouse had no signage, no red carpet. Just shadows and secrets.
Inside, it was a different world. White walls. Soft jazz. Photographs—black and white, moody, unfiltered—lined every inch. Naked bodies. Angled chins. Teary eyes. Lips mid-gasp. Vulnerability turned into art.
And then there he was.
Callen Reed.
Lean, broad-shouldered, wearing nothing but a faded tee, jeans, and a stare that undressed her soul.
"Eira Vaughn," he said, with a slow grin that curled like smoke. "You came."
"I don't usually accept mystery invitations."
"But you're not usual, are you?"
She should've walked away. But her heels stayed planted.
Callen circled her slowly, like a wolf admiring a wounded deer too proud to limp. He paused behind her, his breath warm against her neck.
"People think sex is the most naked thing you can do," he whispered. "They're wrong. It's being seen. Truly. No filters. No lies."
Eira turned to face him. "And you think you can do that with a camera?"
He held one up. "This lens doesn't lie."
"I do."
"Perfect," he said. "That makes the best portraits."
He pointed to the corner of the studio—drapes, soft lighting, a couch that had seen too many sins.
"No pressure. Just stand there. Clothed, for now. Let's see if your face tells me the truth your husband never asked for."
Eira hesitated.
This is madness.
But aren't you tired of being sane?
She stepped into the light.
The shutter clicked.
"You're angry," Callen murmured, lowering his lens. "But not at me."
"I'm not angry."
"Then why are your hands clenched?"
Eira looked down. They were.
"You hate being invisible," he added.
A pause.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Shutter.
Click.
Click.
Click.
"I don't shoot pretty," Callen said. "I shoot real. If you want pretty, stay married. If you want real… take off your mask."
He handed her a mirror.
"What do you see?"
Eira stared.
Not her perfect eyeliner. Not the flawless contour. But the exhaustion behind her lashes. The scream behind her smirk.
A tear rolled down. She didn't even know she had one left in her.
Callen stepped closer, voice low.
"You're allowed to fall apart here. No one will clean up your mess. But no one will judge it either."
And that was when it happened.
Not the kiss. Not the sex. Not yet.
But the moment she realized...
She had never been photographed like this before.
Not by Julian.
Not by anyone.