Isla’s POV

“Vincent, the last batch of gallery prints is still coming off the machine. Do you want me to check the color balance on these or leave them?”

He looked up from the light table, silver at his temples catching the overhead spots, those sharp photographer eyes locking on me like he was already framing a shot.

Forty-eight years old and still the best in the city, the man every gallery fought over.

I was his new assistant, twenty-one, hired three weeks ago after he fired the last one for showing up high.

Today was the final push to finish everything before the show opened later tonight. The studio...