Chapter Text
Yelena Belova lived by light and shadow.
Not the spiritual kind—obviously—but the tangible light measured in f-stops and fractions of seconds, in the reverent hush of a darkroom where red bulbs guarded secrets and silver halides learned to remember. She perceived the world in saturation and contrast, in careful exposure, in the delicate dance between brightness and shadow that revealed truth most eyes missed.
She observed the world through her lens with the quiet intensity of a predator. Her stillness was deliberate; her timing, impeccable. She knew instinctively when to press the shutter, capturing fleeting moments others would miss.
Patient and discerning, she neither interfered nor judged, simply waited for that perfect confluence of light, shadow, and truth.
This patience had won her nearly everything a photographer could win—World Press Photo of the Year, the Leica Oskar Barnack, even a MoMA retrospective that embarrassed her more than it pleased her.
She made a life out of capturing what most people felt but couldn’t hold.
Of course, you’d think that would make her in-touch with her own emotions but Yelena loved living in contradictions.
Her mother claimed she was closed-off like all tortured artists, isolating herself from a world she was afraid to fully engage with. Her father, with quiet pride, insisted that serving as a voice of the people—as a witness and storyteller—was the greatest work one could do; that there was no higher calling.
Her sister said she was an expert at seeing everyone's emotions but her own because she just had to be difficult.
Perhaps that's why she gravitated toward photography in the first place. Behind the lens, she could observe life with detachment, capturing raw emotions of others without having to process her own. The camera became both her shield and her voice—allowing her to translate what she couldn't express into visuals that spoke volumes.
She documented joy, grief, rage, and love with unflinching clarity. Yet when those same emotions stirred within her own chest, she found herself unable to name them, categorize them, or sometimes even acknowledge their existence.
That didn’t mean she did not feel them. No, she always knew when a moment would bruise.
Standing beside her best friend as she announced her engagement to Eli Bradley was one of those moments.
The private Manhattan garden was strung with old-fashioned bulbs of warm light, skyscrapers peering between quince and ivy like obliging guests.
Lucky—Pizza Dog to his friends— had already trotted the garden paths as an unofficial master of ceremonies, his one eye gleaming with excitement, golden retriever fur freshly brushed, satin bow tie slightly askew. When he reached the front of the glass pavilion, he promptly rolled onto his back for belly rubs, drawing a collective gasp and soft laughter from the crowd. Kate had entered on the arms of her stepdad, Jack, and her not-quite stepdad, Clint who, after a kiss to Kate's temple and a firm handshake to Eli, took their seats at the family table.
The program of speeches, normally a drag through purgatory when Yelena was ill-fortunate enough to be booked for similar events at the start of her career, passed by in a rush of noise in her ears and the pounding of her heart. Inside the glass pavilion of the party, a quartet slipped from Vivaldi into a city‑bright jazz standard. Jack delivered a toast so disarmingly sincere and funny that even the surliest extended cousins smiled.
When the emcee called for her turn to speak, the room expected prose from a Pulitzer winner. What they got was an emotional-stunted award‑winning photographer who preferred the economy of a single frame but forced herself to find the words anyway.
Yelena strode to the mic, her back military-straight, her heels echoing across the marble floor. She surveyed the crowd, camera-sharp eyes noting every detail: the expectant faces, Kate's hopeful smile, Eli's basic grin. She adjusted the microphone and cleared her throat.
"I am not one for speeches," she began, her Russian accent more pronounced under pressure. "I let images speak for me. One perfect moment captured tells more truth than many words."
She glanced down at the notecards she'd prepared, crumpled and damp from the sweat on her hands. "But today I must use words for Kate Bishop. My… best friend."
Her eyes found Kate again, magnificent in a sequined black dress against the dark purple of the table decor, radiant with a happiness that made something twist painfully in Yelena's chest.
"Kate Bishop is an exceptional person. She sees potential in everyone — even those who perhaps do not deserve such generous assessment." Her gaze flicked briefly, involuntarily, to Eli before returning to the safer territory of her notecards.
"Kate Bishop is perhaps the most compassionate person I have ever met. She is like golden retriever who has consumed too much caffeine— full of energy, enthusiasm, optimism, and insane ideas.” The crowd chuckled, her fingers trembled. “It is infuriating sometimes how she refuses to see the worst in people, but it is also her greatest strength.
“I have watched her become a CEO who rebuilt her company with integrity, transparency, and honor. I have seen her work until dawn making Bishop Security something truly worthy of respect, beyond her family name and legacy." Yelena's hands gripped the podium's edges, cards crumpled and forgotten. "She deserves someone who matches this dedication. Someone who appreciates her brilliance and treasures her heart." She swallowed hard. "And Eli... he does his best to match her. I suppose that is what matters."
The room rippled with laughter, Eli's broad smile revealing he mistook her candor for wit. Yelena faltered, a treacherous warmth threatening behind her eyes. She drew a measured breath, softening her voice despite the tightness in her chest. "She has this remarkable ability to see the potential in people. She believed in me when I gave her every reason not to. This gift of hers—this unwavering faith in others—is why she holds such a special place in all our hearts."
Yelena raised her glass, fingers tight on the stem to prevent trembling. "To Kate and Eli. May your future together be filled with trust, respect, and partnership equal on both sides." She couldn't quite keep the edge from her voice on those final words.
"Nostrovia," she concluded, and drank deeply, hoping the burn of alcohol would mask the familiar ache in her chest.
The waves of clinks and cheers rolled across the room. Speeches were over, the meal had been served, groups broke away for photos and dancing.
Yelena set her empty glass down and slipped out from her chair, past the bar, beyond the edge of the dance floor, out the side door into a narrow terrace where the river wind made the lights sway a deceitful lullaby that could almost drown out the image of what was happening inside.
Cowardice and loss often traveled as a pair.
She gripped the ice-cold railing, knuckles whitening as she grounded herself through the practiced rituals that anchored her in chaos: mapping escape routes, calculating exposure values, assessing angles to counteract the glare. Through the pavilion's glass, her traitorous eyes caught Eli dramatically dipping Kate into a picture-perfect kiss—one to satisfy a roomful of romantics.
Something curdled in Yelena’s chest.
“If you glare at that rosebush any longer,” a voice said dryly behind her, “it may actually combust.”
Yelena slowly turned, refusing to show she was caught unaware.
Ava Starr stood in the doorway, one arm folded across a crisp charcoal suit, the other holding a cigarette that glowed in the soft diagnostic light of her smartwatch.
Ava was the kind of biometrics and security expert who could sell out keynotes and turn down the Pentagon on principle, the kind who had taught the world uncomfortable truths about liveness detection, gait analysis, thermal signatures, and adversarial masks—and then open‑sourced the fixes. Of course she'd be at the engagement party for the head of Bishop Security.
“I was not glaring,” Yelena bristled at the audacity of this near-stranger acting like she knew her. “I was observing.”
“Of course.” Ava’s arm unfolded to offer out the carton, then slipped the package back into her jacket when Yelena didn’t take it. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Have you been in love with her.”
Had it been said in any other way, by anyone else, at any other time, Yelena would have broken their neck.
Yet there was no malice here, only observation.
Yelena’s shoulders slumped. She had jumped on assignments across continents, her Leica a convenient shield against reality. For months, she'd made excuses to avoid New York, the city that had been her home for the past decade, ignoring the hollow ache that followed her from Tokyo to Cairo to Buenos Aires. Sleep eluded her, something crawled deeper under her skin the further she traveled.
Then the invitation arrived at her Budapest hotel—purple and crimson cardstock edged in silver, bearing their smiling faces like an accusation. She'd torn it to pieces, watching as the fragments scattered across the floor, unable to stomach how happy they looked together.
But now the glass of the pavilion reflected Kate’s bright laugh and Eli’s easy whisper as they glided across the marble tile, and the words spilled before she was aware her lips were moving.
“Too long.” Her breath hitched. “Just…too long.”
There was a pause, the confession hanging in the air between them like a photograph suspended in developer fluid—not yet complete, but revealing it’s delicate form with each passing second. Yelena stared out across the terrace, watching the city lights blur against the darkness, waiting for the inevitable judgment that never came.
“There are worse people to pick,” Ava shrugged, taking a pull from her cigarette then snuffing it out on the ash bin. Her watch buzzed, without even a glance, she muted it with a flick. “Come on. It’s freezing out here.”
"I am Russian." She eyed Ava warily, bewildered by her motives. "Cold is a matter of perspective."
Ava rolled her eyes and strode forward. "And I'm British, yet our bodies regulate to the same temperature. If you're determined to nurse a broken heart, at least do it where there's a warm open bar with top-shelf liquor."
Ava's fingers wrapped around Yelena's wrist, cool and steadying, like the metal of a camera against fevered skin. The touch anchored her, unexpectedly real against the unreality of the evening. With a silent nod, Yelena allowed herself to be guided back toward the party, the warmth of the pavilion beckoning like a darkroom's red light yet providing none of serenity.
They crossed the room together, Ava's slender fingers still wrapped around Yelena's own; the unexpected intimacy of the contact sent a quiet current up Yelena's arm. Halfway to the bar, she abruptly withdrew her hand, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her dress and scowling. Ava's lips curved into a knowing smirk, but she said nothing about the photographer's sudden retreat.
They obtained their drinks in silence, the celebration around them seeming to compress rather than penetrate their private bubble. Yelena perched rigidly on the barstool, face forward, deliberately avoiding the dance floor and the radiant happiness that would surely be visible on Kate's face.
Ava angled toward her, nursing her martini between elegant fingers, piercing green eyes studying Yelena. "I won't tell," her voice was low enough to be lost in the celebration's ambient noise.
"Why?" Yelena finished her vodka and signaled the bartender for another.
"Would you rather I kick you while you’re down?" Ava lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I'm here for professional courtesy, not personal sentiment. Watching the photographer pine for the fiancée is certainly more interesting than talking shop with these morons."
"So I am a source of entertainment?" Yelena asked dryly, her accent sharpening with irritation as received her drink.
Ava's lips curved into a sly smile. "The most fascinating kind," she lifted her glass in a mock toast.
"Wonderful. At least someone is benefiting from my misery," Yelena muttered, eyes fixed on the clear liquid in her glass.
“Hm…misery.” Ava leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper laced with unexpected honesty. "Don't be so dramatic. You're hardly the first person to miss their chance because they were too afraid to take it."
Yelena bristled at the raw exposure of the comment. She glanced at Ava, searching for mockery or pity, but found only the neutral assessment of someone who recognized a pattern; someone who saw it in themself.
The vodka suddenly tasted bitter on her tongue.
"It doesn't matter. There was never a real chance anyway."
Ava arched an eyebrow. "Probably not," she conceded, swirling her drink. "But does telling yourself that actually make it hurt less?"
Yelena stared into her glass for a long moment before giving a small, honest shake of her head. "No," she admitted quietly. "It doesn't."
“Then I suppose this is miserable for you.”
“It is… manageable,” Yelena grumbled, aware she was convincing no one. “I am happy for them.” The pause was the size of Manhattan and exactly as crowded.
“How long?” Ava asked again, softer.
“Since a rooftop on a cold night,” Yelena sighed. Fairy lights on stakes. A frisbee whistling past her ear. A hundred pound ball of fur. The snow softening her fall. “It was infuriating. Then it was… instructive.”
“Beautiful self-sabotage.”
“Are you a therapist in your spare time?” Yelena scoffed as Ava's melodic laughter filled the space between them.
“You don’t need psychology to understand heartbreak. You can live with a constant ache, humans do it all the time.” She set her glass aside and leaned closer. “Or you can take the pressure off the system.”
“What system?”
Ava hooked an ankle around the leg of the barstool. "Yours."
Yelena allowed the chair to slide and turned toward Ava. "Oh?"
Ava’s smirk widened. "I'm sure even Russians have a saying similar to ours—the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."
Before Yelena could formulate a response, their private moment shattered with a whisper of silk and the soft tinkling of sequins. Kate materialized behind them, her presence immediately commanding the space. Her cheeks glowed with exertion from dancing, eyes luminous with joy and the telltale sparkle of too much champagne.
"Yelena!" Kate's voice carried that impossible warmth as she squeezed her shoulder, knowing she wasn’t one for hugs. “I’m so glad you’re here… I missed you.”
Guilt coiled in Yelena's stomach like a venomous snake. She swallowed it down with practiced ease.
"Your speech," Kate continued, impossibly blue eyes glistening with emotion, "was beautiful. I know public speaking is your personal hell, which makes it even more special." She paused, blinking back tears and squeezing her shoulder again. "What you said about me—about us—it meant everything. You've always seen me clearly, even when I couldn't see myself. No one could ask for a better friend than you."
A bullet would be easier than this.