Chapter 3

The online backlash from the launch party was swift and brutal. Memes of Jayme' s stoic face next to Cassie' s triumphant one went viral. 'Jayme Barnes: Canceled,' the headlines read.

But in the cutthroat world of influencing, any publicity is good publicity. The next day, her agent called.

"It's a small indie film," her agent said, "A French director. They're shooting a documentary-style romance in Provence. They saw the buzz and they want you. Not as an actress. As the photographer. The director, a guy named Kenan Gregory, he loves your work."

The job description made her pause. The project was about capturing raw, intimate moments between a couple. It was everything she had run from.

"It's a new chapter, Jayme," her agent urged. "A real artistic challenge."

Jayme thought about it for a moment. Provence. A camera in her hand. A new life.

"I'll take it," she said.

The news of her new gig sparked another round of online debate. 'Has-been influencer tries to be an artist.' 'Is she running away?'

She ignored it all. She went back to Autry's house one last time to clear out her remaining things. The house felt alien. Her rose garden was gone, replaced by sterile white gravel and a single, lonely-looking bamboo stalk.

She walked through her old room, a space filled with memories. The bookshelf he' d built for her. The window seat where she' d spent hours reading books he recommended. She remembered him bringing her hot chocolate, his fingers brushing against hers, sending a jolt through her. It all felt like a lifetime ago.

She looked at her reflection. She had spent so many years trying to be the person she thought he wanted. Vibrant, successful, always smiling. It was an exhausting performance.

She methodically packed everything into boxes. Childhood drawings, old yearbooks, every trinket that held a memory of him. She called the housekeeper.

"Please change the decor in this room," Jayme said, her voice steady. "Something minimalist. Gray or beige. Whatever Mr. Villarreal prefers."

The housekeeper looked at her, confused. "But Miss Barnes, this has always been your room..."

"It's not my room anymore," Jayme said gently. "Please, just make it look like the rest of the house."

She left all the boxes for the housekeeper to dispose of. She only took one thing: a small, worn teddy bear from her childhood. The one thing that was hers before Autry.

As she was walking out the door, her aunt called.

"Are you okay, sweetie? I saw the news. Don't let them get to you."

"I'm fine, Darleen," Jayme lied smoothly. "Just busy with the new project."

She didn' t mention she was leaving the country. She didn't want a scene.

"Why is your aunt calling?"

Autry' s voice came from behind her. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, a deep frown on his face.

"She was just checking in," Jayme said, turning to face him.

"You're taking a job in France?" he demanded. "Without telling me?"

"I'm an adult, Autry. I don't need your permission."

"This is just another one of your stunts, isn't it? Another way to get my attention." His voice was low, accusing.

Jayme felt a flash of the old hurt, but she pushed it down. "Believe what you want."

He stepped closer, his eyes scanning her face. "You haven't seen your aunt in years. Why now?"

"We've been in touch for the last five years," she said calmly, deciding to reveal that small truth. His eyes widened in surprise. He had always assumed he was her only support.

"Jayme! Autry!"

Cassie' s cheerful voice cut through the tension. She appeared at Autry's side, linking her arm through his.

"We were just about to have dinner. Why don't you join us?" she asked, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"No, thank you," Jayme said, her gaze fixed on Autry. "I know you prefer Italian, and Cassie is allergic to garlic. I wouldn't want to impose."

Cassie's smile faltered. Autry's expression hardened.

"I have an early start tomorrow," Jayme said, turning away. "Have a good night."

She didn't wait for a reply. She walked out of the house and didn't look back.

She spent the night at a hotel near the airport. The next day, she was on a plane to Provence.

The first week of the shoot was a whirlwind. The director, Kenan Gregory, was charming and intense. He was a man with a clear vision, and he treated Jayme as a respected collaborator, not an employee. His attentiveness was a balm to her bruised ego.

She threw herself into the work, the camera a shield between her and the world. She captured the beautiful, fleeting moments between the film's actors, finding a strange solace in documenting a love story that wasn't hers.

One afternoon, they were setting up for a pivotal scene in a sun-drenched lavender field. Jayme was lining up her shot, the scent of lavender filling the air, a sense of peace settling over her for the first time in months.

"Clear the set!" the assistant director yelled. "We're ready for the principals!"

Jayme felt a flicker of nervousness. This was a big moment.

Suddenly, a sleek black helicopter descended from the sky, landing in a nearby clearing. The wind from its rotors whipped through the lavender, sending purple petals flying. Everyone stopped and stared.

The helicopter door opened.

Autry Villarreal stepped out, ducking under the blades. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, looking completely out of place in the rustic setting. He held a large bouquet of roses-the same deep red as the ones from her ruined garden.

He strode towards the set, his eyes finding hers immediately.

"Jayme," he called out, his voice a command. "Come here."