The car hummed along the highway, a smooth, insulated bubble against the world. Soft jazz played from the speakers, the saxophone a lonely, meandering voice in the quiet.
Camille's mind drifted.
She remembered meeting Frank Walters in college. He was the golden boy of the law school, all bright smiles and easy confidence. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room.
She remembered her best friend, April Mercado. Sweet, fragile April, who always seemed to need protecting, with a smile that could disarm armies.
She remembered, with a new, sharp clarity, the small moments she had chosen to ignore. The way Frank's hand would linger on April's arm a second too long. The shared glances across a crowded room. The inside jokes that left her on the outside.
Details that were once insignificant now felt like tiny, sharp pieces of glass embedding themselves in her heart.
She remembered the trip Frank had announced two weeks ago. Europe, he had said. He needed air, distance, a few days away from the pressure in New York. He had not invited his wife. He had taken April instead, because April was "fragile lately" and "could use a change of scenery."
Camille had received the itinerary only because his assistant had copied her by mistake. Paris. Lake Como. Santorini. A trail of beautiful cities, first-class seats, and reservations arranged entirely under Frank's name.
She remembered her family's fall from grace. The scandal, the bankruptcy. And Frank, her gallant knight, stepping in to marry her. To "protect" her, he'd said. She knew now he was protecting his own interests, securing a connection to a name that still held weight, even when tarnished.
The car rolled to a stop in the airport parking garage. Camille cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening. A notification on her phone confirmed it: his flight had landed.
She took a deep, steadying breath. One. Two. Three.
She opened the car door and stepped out. By the time her heels clicked against the concrete, the mask was firmly in place. The serene, untouchable smile of Mrs. Walters.
The international arrivals hall was a chaotic swirl of reunions and goodbyes. She spotted him easily.
Frank stood by the baggage claim, looking impatient in his expensive suit. His tie was slightly askew, and the tips of his fingers were stained a faint yellow from nicotine.
He wasn't alone.
A small, delicate figure stood close beside him, one hand resting possessively on his arm.
April Mercado.
She wore a loose, white summer dress. It was meant to look innocent, ethereal. But even the flowing fabric couldn't conceal the unmistakable sign that she was expecting a child.
Camille's gaze paused on that revelation for precisely half a second. Then it moved on. Her smile didn't waver, but a deep, arctic cold began to seep into her veins.
Frank saw her then. His face went rigid. His first, instinctual movement was to pull his arm away from April.
But April held on tighter. She leaned her head against his shoulder, a picture of loving dependence. Then she looked up, her wide, innocent eyes meeting Camille's across the crowded hall. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph disguised as helplessness.
The small, dark mole just below her left eye seemed to mock Camille, a tiny punctuation mark on a page of lies.
Camille started walking towards them. Her steps were even, unhurried. The click-clack of her heels on the polished floor was the only sound in her world. She moved as if she were approaching old friends, as if April had not just returned carrying undeniable proof of Frank's betrayal.
"Frank. Welcome home." Her voice was perfectly level, as if she were commenting on the weather.
Frank's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He looked trapped, his eyes darting away from hers.
April, however, spoke up. Her voice was as sweet and cloying as honey. "Camille, it's been so long. Please don't misunderstand. Frank was so exhausted, and I only went because he didn't want to be alone in Europe. It wasn't meant to look... improper."
She trailed off, letting out a soft, delicate gasp as if the effort of speaking was too much. Her free hand settled protectively over the front of her dress.
The gesture was a billboard. A declaration of war.
Heads were starting to turn. Travelers, sensing drama, began to watch with open curiosity.
Frank's face darkened. He hated public scenes. He lived and died by his public image.
"Let's talk in the car," he hissed, his voice low and urgent, an order disguised as a suggestion.
Camille ignored him completely. Her attention was fixed on April. A brilliant, dazzling smile bloomed on her face. It was the kind of smile she used for magazine photoshoots, beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth. It made April flinch.
Camille's attention shifted, slowly and deliberately, to the hand April had placed over her dress.
She lifted her hand.
She reached out with an open palm, her movement controlled and unhurried.
April recoiled, a genuine look of fear flashing in her eyes. She stumbled back a step, as if Camille were about to strike her. As if Camille were the monster here.
