“I’ll take the twenty million,” I said quietly, forcing the words past the tight knot in my throat. “Once the money is transferred, I’ll remove myself from Dorian’s life completely. You have five days.”
My tone was calm, but my fingers were shaking so badly I had to grip the phone with both hands.
A sharp, victorious laugh burst through the speaker. Vivienne sounded pleased—almost celebratory.
“So you’ve finally understood your position,” she replied. “Excellent. I’ll see that everything is arranged, Camille. Just remember our deal—stay out of my son’s sight forever. I don’t want you anywhere near him again.”
She ended the call before I could respond.
For a long moment I didn’t move. The sudden silence felt deafening, as if the world had been sucked out of the room. My phone slipped from my grasp and landed softly on the sofa. My eyes stung, but nothing fell. No tears, only the dull, hollow weight of giving up.
If this had happened months ago—if I were still the woman I used to be—I would have fought back. I would have screamed, demanded answers, clung to Dorian with everything I had. But something in me had changed. I was too tired now, too broken to keep battling a world I never belonged to.
I shut my eyes and released a shaky breath.
This wasn’t how our story was meant to end.
Five years earlier, I had found Dorian lying unconscious beside the road, his clothes soaked with blood, his memories erased by the crash that nearly killed him. At that time, I barely had anything myself—just a run-down apartment with cracked walls, a thin mattress I bought secondhand, and enough money to scrape through each week.
Still, I brought him home.
I cared for him day after day. I cooked simple meals from whatever I could afford. I cleaned his wounds, stayed awake beside his bed at night, whispering reassurances into the darkness. When he finally woke, disoriented and afraid, I forced a smile through my tears and told him, “You’re not alone anymore. You’re with me.”
He couldn’t remember his family, his past, or even his own name. But somehow, he remembered me.
In that tiny apartment, in that fragile little bubble we created, we fell in love. It wasn’t grand or glamorous—it was raw, imperfect, real. He worked tirelessly, taking every odd job he could find, saving each dollar. At night, he’d hold my hand and murmur, “One day, Camille, I’ll make sure you never have to struggle again. I’ll give you everything.”
And eventually, he did.
Because the truth came crashing back into our lives—Dorian wasn’t a nobody. He was the heir to one of the most powerful corporate dynasties in the city, born into unimaginable wealth. When his memories returned, he took me with him into that glittering world of privilege and influence.
I thought it was the beginning of our happily ever after. He stood up to Vivienne, his cold, commanding mother who treated me like dirt under her heels. He slid a diamond ring onto my finger and vowed, “I choose you. Always. You’re my home, Camille.”
But fairy tales don’t last.
Then Yvette came back.
His first love. The woman who belonged effortlessly to his world. Beautiful, elegant, connected—everything I wasn’t. She returned as if she had never left, and little by little, I felt myself fading into the background.
He forgot our sixth anniversary.
I waited in the penthouse, dinner growing cold in front of me, until the television lit up with images of Dorian walking arm in arm with Yvette at a high-profile gala. The headlines screamed about their reunion, about how destiny had reunited the perfect couple.
Something inside my chest collapsed that night.
When he found the photos I left on my desk, he accused me of spying on him, of hiring people to follow him. He never realized Vivienne had fed me every piece of evidence to push me out of his life.
And yet… I stayed.
Until now.
The sound of the door unlocking dragged me back to the present. The glass doors slid open and Dorian walked in, loosening his tie, phone still pressed to his ear. He didn’t even look at me.
“Did you cook?” he asked absently.
I watched him, my lips twisting into a sad, bitter curve. “Didn’t you already have dinner with Yvette?”
That finally made him glance my way, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What is this, Camille? Are you spying on me again? Haven’t you caused enough trouble with those photos before?”
“That wasn’t me,” I murmured, barely loud enough for myself.
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Do you have any idea how much I lost when I had amnesia? Contacts, deals, influence. Everything I’m doing now is for business. Yvette and I are done romantically—I’ve told you that over and over. She’s just a strategic connection.”
I wanted to believe him. I truly did. But the edge in his voice, the way he grouped himself with Yvette so naturally—it told me the truth he wouldn’t say.
So I simply nodded.
Then I stood up.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
I turned back with a blank expression I didn’t feel. “I don’t feel well. I need to lie down.”
I passed him without another word and locked myself in the bedroom that had never once felt like home.
I collapsed onto the bed, clutching my chest. Everything around me glittered—expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city shining beneath me.
But it all felt meaningless.
My eyes landed on my passport on the nightstand. My hand shook as I picked it up. After a long, unsteady breath, I dialed a number I knew by heart.
“Cass?” Mara answered immediately, concern thick in her voice.
I swallowed hard. “Can you come for me in five days? I’m… I’m not marrying Dorian anymore. I need to leave.”
