Your life or the camera?

The photographer approached the gate, his footsteps echoing through the morning air. As he caught sight of the men in black, his heart skipped a beat. Their imposing figures seemed to loom over him.

At first, he was scared. But Mira's assurance that everything was okay echoed in his mind, calming his nerves.

"Good morning," he greeted, trying to sound casual as he touched the gate, thinking he'd be able to open it.

But instead of a friendly response, he felt a sudden jolt of electricity from the gates.

"What does this mean?" he asked, confusion etched on his face.

One of the security personnel stepped forward, his voice firm.

"Where were you last night?" he asked.

The photographer hesitated.

"Where exactly am I coming from? What sort of question is that?" he replied, trying to sound confident.

The security personnel raised an eyebrow.

"Let me out!" the photographer demanded, touching the gate again without thinking.

He yelped in pain as the electricity coursed through his body.

The security personnel chuckled.

"Hey!" the photographer yelled, frustration mounting.

"Are you ready to talk?" the security personnel asked, his tone unyielding.

The photographer paused.

"What am I meant to say?" he asked, uncertainty creeping in.

The security personnel turned away.

"Fine," the photographer yelled.

"I will talk," he said, resolve in his voice.

"Who brought you here?" the security personnel asked.

"Miss Walton," the photographer replied.

"Which Miss Walton?"

"Mira Walton."

"Why, and what time did you come in?" the security personnel pressed.

The photographer fumbled.

"I was put in the trunk... I didn't know the time."

The security personnel's eyes narrowed.

"So, what's your purpose of coming here?"

The photographer hesitated.

"I... I... can't tell," he stammered.

The security personnel turned to face the other way

" Fine, I came to please Miss... Miss Walton," the photographer said.

The security personnel smirked.

"Really?"

"Yes, I am telling the truth," the photographer lied.

The security personnel's gaze lingered.

"Oh, then what's in the bag?"

"It's nothing."

" But it looks quite heavy," he observed.

"It's just clothes" the photographer insisted.

The security personnel turned away.

"Can you stop this attitude? You are freaking me out. Plus, it's getting annoying. It's getting on my nerves."

The photographer's anxiety grew.

"Can you stop it? It's private. I don't want to talk about the details."

"Then you're not ready to leave "

The security personnel said as he turned back.

"Fine," the photographer unzipped the bag a little.

"I want to see everything," the security personnel demanded.

The photographer's heart sank,why did Mira tell her it's safe,he'd be caught!!

"What's the camera for? Did you take nude pictures of her?"

"No I didn't,I don't take pictures of my clients." He replied trying to look confident.

"Hand it over." It's over he thought to himself,he can't run away. He doesn't know any other exit route aside the gate.

"I did not," the photographer protested as he tried to delete the pictures he took last night. He hates these men for ruining his plans,he could have used them to blackmail Miss Mira,Miss Kimberly and even Mr Thompson,he could make millions even billions out of three of them,he could be famous,he could post these on his social media handles and gain a lot of followers in an hour. But these...

"I said, hand it over," the security personnel replied.

The photographer's eyes widened as the security personnel pulled out his gun.

"Believe me, I am telling the truth."

But it was too late.

The security personnel's grip on the gun tightened.

"Give it to me."

The photographer's world slowed down.

He wasn't prepared to die.

Not now.

Not like this.

If only he had deleted the pictures.

His intention was to post them on social media.

For fame.

For fortune.

But now, it might cost him his life.

The photographer handed over the camera, his movements deliberate and resigned. He knew he was done. There was no escape.

The intimate pictures of Mr Thompson and the women were all there, stored on the camera's memory card. He couldn't even make a call for help; the security personnel had taken control.

The security personnel smiled, a cold, calculating smile, as he scrolled through the camera.

"Are you sure you're Miss Walton's lover?" he asked mockingly, eyeing the photographer from head to toe.

His voice dripped with sarcasm.

The photographer shifted uncomfortably.

The security personnel handed the camera to his colleagues, instructing them to review the pictures.

Meanwhile, he pulled out his phone and dialed Mr Thompson's number.

"Good morning Mr Thompson, I'm sorry to disturb but we have a situation here " he said, his tone measured.

Andrew answered, his voice cold and detached.

"Bring them in," he ordered,he groaned because he didn't want to stand up because Astrid lay on his chest,he didn't want to wake her. But he had to attend to them.

The photographer's heart sank when he heard the security personnel greet Mr Thompson.

The photographer knew he was doomed once he heard Mr Thompson's cold voice.

The security personnel grabbed the camera and punched in some codes. The gates swung open, creaking slowly.

The photographer thought of running, but his legs felt heavy.

"You're coming with us," the security personnel said, dragging him toward the mansion.

Another guard picked up his bag and followed.

In the receiving room, Andrew waited, his face stern and unforgiving.

"He claims to be Miss Walton's lover and has pictures of you with Miss Walton and Miss Kimberly," the security personnel explained.

Andrew's eyes narrowed.

"Mira sent you, didn't she?" he accused.

The photographer's stomach churned.

"Yes," he stammered.

Andrew scrolled through the pictures, his expression unchanging.

"Mira brought you here for this, didn't she?" he asked.

The photographer nodded, ready to beg.

"Mr Thompson, please—"

Andrew's glare silenced him.

"I'll never speak of this," the photographer promised.

But Andrew's expression remained unforgiving.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," the photographer pleaded, his voice shaking. "I promise never to step foot here again."

He still guarded his eyes, fearful of meeting Andrew's gaze.

"I don't want to go to jail," he begged. "Everyone would laugh at me back home. Please, I promise you can take the pictures. I'll never come back."

Andrew's expression remained unyielding.

"You did something bad, right?" he asked.

The photographer hesitated.

"Yes, it was wrong," he admitted. "Yes, it was wrong."

Andrew's eyes narrowed.

"Continue," Andrew ordered.

The photographer swallowed hard.

"She hired me to take pictures of you and Miss Walton, and Miss Kimberly," he confessed.

Andrew's face darkened.

"Go on," he commanded.

The photographer's voice trembled.

"She promised me a large sum of money and guaranteed my safety," he said.

Andrew's jaw clenched.

"I see," he said.

The photographer's eyes welled up with tears.

"Please, Mr Thompson, have mercy," he implored.

Andrew's silence was oppressive.

"I know it was wrong," the photographer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I really needed money."

He paused, collecting his thoughts.

"She offered a huge amount," he continued. "An amount I couldn't turn down. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. I would never do it again."

Andrew's gaze lingered on the camera, his expression unreadable.

"Your life or the camera?" Andrew asked, his voice low and deliberate.

The photographer's eyes widened in confusion.

"Ah, but the camera is expensive," he stammered. "I couldn't possibly forfeit it."

Andrew's expression remained unyielding.

"I'm not giving it to you," he declared. "I'm destroying it."

Memories flashed through the photographer's mind: struggles, hardships, and sacrifices made to save enough money to start his career.

He remembered the countless nights spent sleeping with an empty stomach.

The endless days spent searching for a break.

The camera represented his livelihood.

"Your life or the camera?" Andrew asked again.

The photographer's eyes welled up with tears.

He hesitated.

"I'll take both?" Andrew asked.

"No, no, take the camera," he sobbed finally. "I'll keep my life."

Andrew's lips curled into a slow smile.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

The photographer nodded.

"Yes, I'm sure."

He wiped his tears.

Took a deep breath.

And stood up.

With a heavy heart.

He left.

Leaving Andrew with the camera.

Andrew's smile grew wider.

As he watched the photographer walk away.

Symbolizing his victory.