The rain hit my face like a thousand needles as I stepped out the back door, expecting silence. Instead, chaos swallowed me whole.
A dozen reporters surged forward, umbrellas snapping open, camera flashes blinding me like lightning strikes. The sound—shouting, clicking, snapping—was deafening.
“Mrs. Anders! We heard you push Cara to the ground, is it true?”
“What caused the fight?”
“Is it true you tried to take your own life after the accident?”
“Did your husband refuse to save your children? Was it because of your affair?”
Each question sliced through me like shards of glass. Their words blurred, voices overlapping, forming a cruel symphony of accusation. I couldn’t breathe. My palms trembled as I tried to push through them, but they closed in tighter like predators circling a prey.
I could still feel Eleanor’s hand on my cheek; the sting of the slap burning hotter than the rain. My vision blurred from humiliation. I must’ve looked exactly like what they wanted: the frantic, unstable wife.
Then the main doors burst open. Leon strode out, his face taut with fury, his tie askew, and his hand gripping the door like it might break. Behind him, Cara followed, fragile and perfect, her eyes glistening with artful tears as she leaned into Eleanor’s arm.
“Leon!” she cried, voice trembling. “She’s doing it again!”
The cameras pivoted instantly.
Leon’s gaze locked on me, cold and hard. There was no confusion. No sympathy. Just the kind of disgust that could kill a person faster than a bullet.
Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around Cara, shielding her from me as if I were the danger.
“My wife is under extreme duress,” he said to the cameras, his tone rehearsed and righteous. “These rumors are vile and not true. Please respect our privacy.”
He didn’t even look at me. Not once.
He ushered Cara into the waiting car, his coat draped over her shoulders. And then they were gone. The crowd followed them like moths to light, leaving me stranded under the rain, mascara bleeding down my cheeks.
I leaned against the cold brick wall, trembling. The alley smelled of garbage and gasoline, but I couldn’t seem to mind. When I finally ordered a ride, the app indicated a 30-minute wait.
Thirty minutes of standing in the downpour. Thirty minutes of being no one.
It was nearly one in the morning when I reached home. And as I stepped inside, laughter greeted me.
The living room glowed warmly, with a golden, intimate ambiance. Cara was curled on the couch, her hair damp, her bare feet tucked beneath her. Leon stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently.
For a moment, the sound in my head stopped. The dripping of my coat, the ache in my bones; it all went quiet.
“What is she doing here?” I whispered.
Leon turned slowly, his face unreadable, though irritation flickered in his eyes.
“She was shaken up. Did you not see the reporters? She’s staying here for now.”
I blinked at him. “For now?”
Cara looked up, slightly smirking, but her tone was careful, almost apologetic.
“Leon insisted. I didn’t want to intrude, Camilla. You’ve already had such a hard night.”
Such a hard night. I nearly laughed.
“This is my house,” I said, voice low, shaking.
“Our house,” Leon corrected sharply. “And as long as I live here, I decide who stays under this roof. Cara needs protection from the media circus you caused.”
“I caused?” My laugh cracked. “Your mother slapped me. The reporters nearly tore me apart. And you...you left me.”
Leon’s eyes darkened. “Don’t twist this. You embarrassed me tonight. You humiliated my family. Cara has shown more grace than you ever have.”
Cara looked down, a perfect image of guilt and gentleness.
“Leon, please… don’t be harsh. I can stay at a nearby hotel if that’s what Camilla prefers...”
“No,” he said firmly, his arm tightening around her. “You stay here. If anyone needs to leave, it’s her.”
The words landed harder than Eleanor’s slap. I turned away before either of them could see me break. Upstairs, the walls of our bedroom felt smaller than ever. Every photo, every memory mocked me. But I hurriedly changed, went to bed, and ignored the joyous laughter I hear downstairs.
By morning, my reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable. My face was swollen from crying, my eyes bruised from sleeplessness. The coffee on the counter had gone cold hours ago.
Leon entered, freshly showered and crisp in his suit.
“I canceled your plans today,” he said.
I looked up slowly. “What plans?”
“You’re not going anywhere. The press is outside again. Stay quiet. Don’t make things worse.”
“With her?” I asked, eyeing Cara, who was waiting outside the door.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Cara’s leaving for a spa appointment. I’m driving her. She needs peace after what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?” My throat tightened. “You’re locking me like a prisoner while she’s treated like...”
“Enough, Camilla.” He cut me off, eyes like steel. “Then next time, learn to behave.”
He turned and left.
The silence afterward was unbearable. Then, my phone rang. Dante.
“Change of plans,” he said, his voice rough, impatient. “I’m done waiting.”
“Dante, I can’t. My divorce, my passport...I can’t just leave.”
“Then I’ll make it happen tomorrow,” he said, and the line went dead.
I didn’t feel confused; I felt a violent, shattering hope. Leon wanted me gone. Cara had taken my place. Then, I would do it earlier than planned.
