Zaire has waited three long years to reunite with her best friend, Aiyana. Their joy is unmistakable, but her excitement quickly shifts when she meets Aiyana's boyfriend-Omari, the man Zaire once loved deeply.
Unbeknownst to Aiyana, Zaire and Omari...
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The crisp air carries the salty tang of the Aegean Sea as I step off the ferry in Santorini. My bags weigh me down, but the view ahead feels lighter than a dream. Whitewashed buildings cling to the cliffs, their blue domes gleaming under the sun. This place looks like someone took a paintbrush to the world and decided to create paradise.
I'm here for work, but standing here now, I wonder if it'll ever stop feeling like a vacation when my job takes me to places like this. A shuttle waits at the dock, a driver holding a sign with my name on it in neat block letters.
"Welcome, Miss Kanda," he greets me in a thick accent.
I offer a polite smile, adjusting my camera bag on my shoulder. "Thank you."
The drive up the winding cliffside roads reveals postcard-perfect views, but my thoughts are heavier than the scenery. This isn't my first destination shoot, but it's my first wedding since... everything.
When we arrive at the villa, the sheer grandeur of the place stuns me for a moment. Marble pillars frame the sprawling courtyard, where flowers spill over every surface like nature itself is celebrating the occasion. Inside, the space glows with opulence.
"Miss Robinson?" A tall woman in a tailored suit approaches me. She introduces herself as Yasmin, the wedding planner, and her confidence radiates. "I'm glad you're here. The ambassador's family is expecting the very best, and your work came highly recommended."
I nod, shifting my bag. "I'll do my best."
She smiles, but her tone is brisk. "The ceremony starts at sunset. I'll walk you through the key moments we'd like captured, but feel free to work your magic."
I follow her through the villa, taking note of the setup—the floral arrangements, the archway overlooking the ocean, the elaborate table settings. Every detail feels deliberate, perfect.
I glance at the bride, a young Egyptian woman whose gown sparkles like starlight. She's breathtaking, and the way she looks at her groom—it's like nothing else in the world exists for her.
I swallow hard, lifting my camera. The lens feels like a shield, something to hide behind as I begin snapping shots of the preparations.
The first click of the shutter draws me into focus, into the rhythm of my craft. I capture stolen glances, gentle touches, the soft folds of the bride's veil as the wind teases it.
But no matter how hard I try to stay present, my thoughts drift.
Omari.
If it had been me and Omari, our wedding would've been... simple. Just the two of us, somewhere quiet. Maybe a beach, like this.
I can almost see it—me barefoot in a flowing dress, his hand warm in mine. The tide would creep up the sand as we exchanged vows, and when it was done, we'd run into the waves, laughing like kids.
