4: 4
The next day.
An official invitation from the Continental Academy of Fine Arts landed in my inbox, along with an e-ticket for a flight to Paris three days out.
Right after it, my mentor sent a short email.
“Camille, welcome back. Remember this: no matter when, the talent that belongs to you will never betray you.”
Reading the words on the screen, my eyes went hot, and something in me settled that hadn't been settled in years.
For three years, to keep up appearances for Mark, I'd put away my brushes, learned to wash my hands and cook, and turned into a puppet who came the second he called.
Now, at last, I was going to cut these rotten cords with my own hands and live one life for myself.
On the morning of the third day, Mark's assistant sent an email.
“Ms. Turner, Mr. Sanchez is hosting a grand pre-wedding reception for you tonight at the Bulgari Hotel. Please be sure to attend on time. Mr. Sanchez says stop making a scene.”
I didn't reply. I called a moving company.
“Every piece of clothing, all my art supplies, all my books that belong to me. Pack it up and clear it out.”
“Anything that can't be taken goes straight into the shredder and the trash.” I directed the workers, calm the whole time.
In under two hours, the place was empty.
In the spacious living room, all that was left were those luxury mystery boxes Mark had bought for Rowena, and a pile of expensive ornaments.
Looking at the cold, bare apartment, all I felt was that it was one giant garbage dump.
I set the police report receipt on the table, along with a Declaration Ending the Engagement, signed unilaterally and stamped with a lawyer's seal.
I pulled up my suitcase, turned, and left, getting into the car service to the airport.
At eight that night, the ballroom of the Bulgari Hotel blazed with light.
In a couture suit, Mark stood at the door, greeting guests, every inch the gentleman.
He was certain I'd wear the dress he'd picked out himself and show up obediently at his side, the way I'd caved to him countless times before.
By eight-thirty, there was still no sign of me at the entrance.
Mark smiled and touched glasses with the guests, discreetly waving his assistant over to go hurry me along, impatience plain in his eyes.
In the past, whenever I threw a fit, all he had to do was offer me a way out and I'd take it. He figured I'd dragged this one out too long.
At eight forty-five, the assistant came running back in from outside, drenched in sweat, and stammered out his report.
“Mr. Sanchez… Ms. Turner's number, it's disconnected…”
Mark's brow finally drew together, and a crack of unease opened somewhere in his chest, out of nowhere.
He forced himself calm, strode up onto the stage, picked up the microphone, and got ready to give his opening remarks first, holding on to his flawless image as a decent man.
The instant he lifted his glass, the LED screens across the ballroom went black.
The next second, a huge screenshot of a court case filing flashed onto them.
It read, plain as day: Camille Turner has filed a report under her real name accusing Mark Sanchez of embezzling $800,000 in dowry. The case has been accepted for investigation!
The ballroom doors were shoved open.
The lawyer I'd retained strode in, and in front of everyone, raised the megaphone in his hand and announced it loud.
“On behalf of Ms. Camille Turner, I am today formally issuing the declaration ending her engagement to Mr. Mark Sanchez, and pursuing, under the law, his financial liability for misappropriating her personal property!”
In that instant, the flawless mask on Mark's face shattered.
