From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 112

**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell**

**Chapter 9**

The salty tang of the ocean breeze wafted gently through the half-open window, mingling with the scent of ink and paper as I penned the final line of my latest design. As I lifted my gaze from the page, I caught sight of River, leaning casually against the doorframe, his presence a comforting constant in the chaotic world of fashion.

He held two steaming coffee cups in his hands, the warmth radiating from them contrasting with the cool air. His eyes sparkled behind his gold-rimmed glasses, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the corners crinkled when he smiled.

“The wings in your final ‘Caged Birds’ design have three more cracks than the original,” he remarked, his tone light yet tinged with a hint of seriousness.

My hand froze mid-motion, the pencil hovering above the page. The image of the bird I had sketched was one of shattered wings, yet it reached defiantly upward, embodying my own feelings that night as I hunched over my work in the dim storage room.

I reached for the coffee, letting the bitter aroma envelop my senses as it spread across my tongue. “Cracks are the price of breaking free,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

“But light gets in through the cracks,” he countered, his voice softening as he leaned in closer, his long fingers delicately tracing the edge of the paper.

His sleeve brushed against my hand, and the warmth of his touch sent a jolt of surprise through me, causing me to instinctively pull back. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I cursed myself for being so easily flustered.

He chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to dance in the air, and pushed a stack of photographs toward me. “The client wants to showcase ‘Caged Birds’ at next month’s Fashion Week. I was thinking of using real feather embellishments—are you scared of birds?”

A flicker of memory surged through me, and I traced the image of a white egret spreading its wings in one of the photographs. I recalled the moment when Jake had carelessly tossed my beloved sparrow figurine from the windowsill into the trash, a cruel act that had left a lasting mark on my heart.

“I used to be,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

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