Page 89 of Desperate Games

I’ve been taking pictures for as long as I can remember. When words failed me, when my sisters or my missing my brother when he was off fighting wars was just too much, or when I couldn’t find the courage to say what I really felt—I picked up my camera. Framed the world in glass.

The lens speaks when I can’t.

And somehow, the truth comes out sharper. More focused.

I sold a few prints last year, nothing fancy, just skyline shots of New York from across the Hudson in Edgewater.

They weren’t groundbreaking, but people liked them. Enough to buy them. And when I saw my photos hanging on a gallery wall, my heart nearly burst.

Of course, I used a pseudonym. I didn’t want the Volkov name to open doors for me. I wanted it to be mine.

And then last week, the gallery owner emailed me—asking if I’d been working on anything new.

I panicked. Then I remembered the photos I took after Leanna’s wedding. That night after I spent it with Remy, restless and raw, I couldn’t sleep.

My body was buzzing, my heart in chaos, so I grabbed my camera and one of the Jeeps. I drove until the wilderness met the sea, just me, the waves, and the stars.

And I shot.

For hours.

Rocks jagged like teeth against the horizon.

The ocean mist caught in dawn light.

Even my reflection, bent and blurred in a tide pool, like the woman in it was a stranger.

I sent them over.

And now?

He wants them.

The gallery wants me.

I should be shouting it from rooftops, telling my family, calling my sisters. But instead, I’m sitting on it. Holding it close.

Because the first person I want to tell is Remy.

My husband.

And that alone scares the hell out of me.

We get to the house, and just as I knew she would, Callie wakes up the second the car slows in the driveway.

She rubs her eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and clutches my hand as we walk up the stone steps.

My parents are already waiting for us in the living room—Mom perched on the edge of the sofa like she’s about to launch herself forward, Dad in his usual armchair, broad and commanding, but with that soft glint in his eye reserved for family.

Callie hesitates, pressing against my leg, her little fingers tightening around mine.

Shy. Unsure.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I whisper, smoothing her hair.

But my parents? They don’t push.

They’ve never needed to. They radiate love, and within a few minutes, Callie peeks up at them, her lips twitching like she wants to smile.