Camille should have known the universe would not allow her a clean exit.
The week after she told Caspian she was going home, the city seemed to sharpen around her, as if Manhattan itself had decided to test whether she meant what she said. Every elevator mirror reflected a woman who looked composed, polished, and perfectly in control, yet her chest still carried that familiar tightness—the one that appeared whenever she remembered how easily he dismissed her, and how quickly he turned gentle when the right person looked at him.
The burn on her wrist had healed into a thin, angry line. The fever passed. The embarrassment did not.
She tried to bury herself in work. Camille had always done that. When things hurt, she designed. When she felt lonely, she sketched. When she was humiliated, she transformed fabric into something powerful enough to make people forget they had ever underestimated her. Her studio, perched in a converted SoHo loft, had once been a sanctuary that Caspian paid for but rarely entered, a compromise between secrecy and support. She had told herself it was romantic, him believing in her talent. Now it felt like a gilded leash.
That morning, her team insisted on taking her out.
“You can’t leave New York without letting us spoil you once,” her assistant, Nina, announced, waving her phone like a gavel. “We already booked the private dining room. No excuses.”
Camille didn’t argue. Arguing required energy, and she had spent too much of hers surviving her own thoughts. Besides, the invitation had the word celebration sprinkled through it like confetti, and her employees genuinely adored her. She owed them a night where she smiled without forcing it.
They chose Le Cygne, a restaurant that catered to old money, discreet celebrities, and people who knew how to spend small fortunes on wine without blinking. Camille knew it well because Caspian loved it, which was precisely why she hesitated when Nina announced the location. Still, she nodded and went along, telling herself she refused to let him claim even a restaurant from her life.
The table was laughter and warm light. Nina made a toast. Another colleague teased Camille about becoming “a married woman” soon, and Camille let the joke pass without correcting it. No one there needed to know the arrangement wasn’t a whirlwind romance, but a strategic match being finalized through family conversations and quiet legal teams.
Halfway through the meal, Camille excused herself to the restroom. She walked down the corridor lined with velvet-framed portraits and soft gold sconces, breathing in the fragrance of expensive perfume and truffle butter, reminding herself she could endure anything for ten minutes.
Then she saw her.
Bianca Moreau stood by the mirror near the restroom entrance, adjusting the strap of her designer heel as though she owned the corridor, the restaurant, and the world beyond it. She wore a cream silk dress that looked effortless on her, and her hair fell in glossy waves over one shoulder. She didn’t look surprised to see Camille. If anything, her smile sharpened, as if she had been waiting.
“Camille,” Bianca said sweetly. “What a coincidence.”
Camille’s fingers tightened around her clutch. “Bianca.”
Bianca turned slightly, letting the mirror capture them both. That was the first thing she did—frame them together, as if she wanted proof of whatever story she planned to tell later.
“You look lovely,” Bianca continued, tone almost kind. “Caspian always had good taste.”
Camille forced her expression into neutrality. “I didn’t realize I was part of his collection.”
Bianca’s smile widened just enough to show she enjoyed the jab. “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure you’ve been… very useful to him.”
Camille’s stomach twisted, but her voice stayed calm. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
Bianca tilted her head, studying her with the mild curiosity of someone inspecting a painting. “Plainly? Fine. I’ve been wondering since the gala. Do you ever notice how similar we are?”
Camille’s throat tightened. She had seen the resemblance the moment Bianca returned, not because she and Bianca shared identical features, but because there was a certain elegance in Bianca’s bone structure, a certain softness in the eyes, that Camille had been subtly nudged toward over the years. Caspian had suggested hairstyles. Caspian had gifted jewelry in shades Bianca preferred. Caspian had praised particular dresses on Camille—the same silhouettes Bianca now wore like a signature.
She had convinced herself it meant nothing.
Bianca’s voice lowered. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How men like him always rebuild what they lost. Not with bricks and mortar. With women.”
Camille held Bianca’s gaze and refused to look at the mirror again. “You’re imagining things.”
“No,” Bianca said softly, and her eyes flashed with something cold. “I’m remembering. Caspian and I had our first anniversary dinner here, in this very restaurant. He had the chef make a dish that wasn’t on the menu because he knew I hated spicy food. He told me the scent of pepper gave me headaches.”
Camille felt the world tilt, the conversation from weeks ago snapping into place. She remembered Caspian rinsing shrimp for her, warning her not to eat too much spice, insisting it was for her health. She remembered trusting him because she wanted to.
Bianca’s smile returned, slow and satisfied. “Does he still do that thing with the shrimp? Rinses it before peeling? He used to do it for me.”
