From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

“I said I’d come,” I replied, my voice trailing off as we wrapped up the call. A moment of silence lingered before the line went dead.

Turning to Denny, I forced a smile, though it felt more like a mask than a genuine expression.

“You know what the worst part about ECT is?” I began, my tone flat and devoid of emotion, as if I were discussing the weather. “It doesn’t just rob you of your ability to draw. It obliterates your memory as well.”

Denny’s eyes glistened with a hint of sorrow, turning a shade of red that mirrored the weight of my words.

“Wren,” he said, his voice low and heavy, “I’ve seen your old work. It’s… God, what a waste.”

I knew he meant it. I had been good—really good. Art had been my passion, my sanctuary, the one thing I loved more than anything else in the world.

After graduating, I had landed a position at one of the country’s top design firms, a dream come true. But then everything crumbled before I had the chance to prove myself.

They had plans to keep me on, shifting me to a different department, until Quinn’s complaint shattered that hope.

From that moment on, I was blacklisted, a pariah in the industry. Job opportunities evaporated, leaving me stranded in a forgotten town, starting from scratch.

Denny rubbed his face in frustration, the lines of worry etched deeper. “You don’t have to see him. Just let me go in your place.”

“It’s okay,” I murmured, closing my eyes as I took a deep breath. “There’s something else I need to reclaim anyway. Might as well tackle it all at once.”

My college portfolio.

Zachary had pleaded with me for it years ago, his eyes alight with enthusiasm as he declared he wanted to frame every page and keep it forever. What a cruel joke that now felt.

He had chosen the meeting spot—an old pedestrian street near the campus.

The end of the block used to be a bakery, the place where we celebrated every anniversary with delicious cakes. Now, it had transformed into a coffee shop, the decor updated but the address unchanged.

13:19

From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer: Smile Ex

2.9%

**Chapter 5**

Zachary was nestled in the back corner, his spine rigid, shoulders tense as if bracing for an impending storm.

I approached him, nodding once, my heartbeat echoing in my ears as I settled into the chair across from him.

A flat white sat waiting for me, but as I took a sip, I was met with a harsh chill.

He must have been here for a while, the nervous energy radiating off him palpable. His fingers drummed against the table, a familiar tell I recognized all too well.

I had witnessed that anxious gesture only three times before: when he confessed his love, when he proposed, and now—what could possibly be making him so uneasy?

The shop had changed hands, yet the previous owner was still around, his presence a ghost of memories past.

He glanced our way, a spark of recognition lighting up his face before he ambled over, a smile breaking through. “Wait—could that really be you two? I haven’t seen you in ages! Remember when you brought those wedding favors a few years back?”

I offered a smile in return, though it felt bittersweet.

“He’s got fresh ones if you’re interested. Just got remarried,” I quipped, my heart sinking as I watched Zachary’s neck flush crimson. The owner, sensing the tension, quickly retreated.

“Zachary.”

Just saying his name felt like a ritual, one I had repeated thousands of times over the past decade.

*”Zachary, can you help me with my homework?”*

*”Zach, my feet hurt—carry me.”*

“Careful, Zach! You’re going to leave a mark.”*

But this time, it was different. Final.

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. It’s too late for that. We were never meant to work.”

With that, I clutched the portfolio tightly against my chest and turned to leave.

Later, as Denny was busy shooting a campaign, I recounted the encounter.

He shook his head, disbelief etched on his face. “That’s it? You should have torn him apart. Made him feel the weight of what you’ve felt.”

He paused, a deep sigh escaping his lips.

“Actually, no. Forget him. After everything you’ve been through? Just walking away without falling apart? That takes real strength.”

This version of me—the one who could maintain composure—had been forged through years of sleepless nights and countless therapy sessions.

It took four long years to reach this point.