Camille swallowed hard. The words landed with brutal precision because they were not shouted, not dramatic, not messy. They were delivered like a fact. Like a truth Bianca had carried like a trophy.
Camille’s hand trembled slightly, but she steadied it against the cold marble counter. “I’m not interested in this conversation,” she said, and turned.
Bianca caught her arm—not hard, but enough to stop her. Her nails were manicured, pale, perfect.
“You should be,” Bianca murmured. “Because if you’re still clinging to your little secret, it’s going to hurt when it breaks.”
Camille pulled her arm free and walked away before she said something that would reveal she was bleeding inside. She returned to her colleagues, sat down, and smiled through their chatter as though nothing had happened, even as Bianca’s words replayed in her mind like a cruel refrain.
She made it nearly five minutes.
Then the door to the private dining room swung open.
Caspian stood in the doorway.
For a brief, surreal moment, the room seemed to quiet. His gaze swept past the table, past Nina’s startled expression, past the half-finished plates, until it locked onto Camille with a force that made her skin prickle. His jaw was set, his eyes dark with restrained fury, and the sight of him there, in her space, in her moment, made her feel suddenly exposed.
“Camille,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut.
The room froze.
Camille stood slowly, forcing her posture straight. “Excuse me,” she told her colleagues, her tone calm and professional, as though she was stepping out to take a business call.
Caspian turned and walked out without waiting for her. She followed, heart pounding in that familiar rhythm of dread and disbelief.
The corridor was dimmer than the dining room, quieter, insulated from the restaurant’s warmth. Bianca stood several feet away, leaning against the wall with a faintly pained expression, as if she had been injured by someone’s cruelty. A napkin was pressed to her wrist. Her eyes flicked toward Camille and then away, delicate and wounded.
Caspian didn’t look at Bianca for long. He looked at Camille.
“What did you do?” he demanded, low and vicious.
Camille blinked. “What are you talking about?”
Bianca exhaled shakily. “It’s okay, Caspian. She didn’t mean to—”
“Stop,” Caspian snapped, his focus still on Camille. “You pushed her. She told me you grabbed her arm in the hallway.”
Camille stared at him, stunned by how quickly his conclusion formed, how solid it became, how little space he left for her reality.
“I didn’t touch her,” Camille said, her voice steady despite the tremor inside her. “She grabbed me.”
Caspian’s laugh was short and bitter. “Of course you’d say that. There are no cameras back here, Camille. You knew that.”
The words hit like a slap before the slap even came.
Camille’s mouth went dry. “So that’s it? Bianca says something, and you decide it’s true?”
Caspian took a step closer. “Why would she lie?”
Camille let out a breath that sounded dangerously like a laugh. “And why would I? Because I woke up today and decided I wanted to ruin my own farewell dinner with my team?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. You’ve been cold. Dramatic. You can’t stand the fact that she’s back and—”
“And what?” Camille cut in, her voice finally cracking. “And you can’t stand the fact that I noticed?”
Caspian’s hand lifted.
For a fraction of a second, Camille truly believed he was going to touch her gently, that he might grab her wrist the way he did when he wanted to calm her down. She almost flinched toward the familiarity.
Then his palm struck her cheek.
The sound was soft compared to what it did to her.
Camille stumbled half a step, shock rippling through her body like electricity. Heat flared across her skin, and her eyes watered instantly, not from pain alone but from the sheer impossibility of what had happened.
Caspian’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, he looked justified.
“Don’t do this again,” he said, voice clipped. “Do you understand me?”
Camille held her face, staring at him as though he had become someone else entirely. Somewhere behind him, Bianca’s eyes widened, but her mouth remained covered by her napkin, her posture still fragile, still innocent.
Camille’s laugh escaped before she could stop it. It came out raw, disbelieving.
“I spent seven years protecting you,” she said quietly. “Protecting your image, your reputation, your plans. I accepted being invisible because you told me it was temporary. And the first time I stop smiling through the humiliation, you hit me.”
Caspian’s jaw flexed. “You’re not a victim.”
Camille’s eyes burned, but she refused to cry in front of him. Not here. Not like this.
She straightened, forcing her voice into something calm and lethal. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m not.”
She turned without another word and walked back toward the dining room, not because she wanted to continue the dinner, but because she refused to let him drag her further into the shadows.
Inside, her colleagues looked up, instantly sensing something had gone wrong. Camille didn’t sit down. She reached for her purse, offered a tight smile, and spoke clearly enough for them all to hear.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice steady. “Something urgent came up. Please enjoy the rest of the evening. It’s on me.”
Nina stood, concern in her eyes. “Camille—”
“Tomorrow,” Camille promised gently, then left before her voice betrayed her.
Outside, the cold night air met her like a slap of its own. She walked until her heels hurt, until the sting on her cheek dulled into a throbbing reminder, until she reached the curb and raised a hand for a car.
When she finally slid into the back seat, the driver asked for her address.
Camille stared out the window at the glowing city and realized, with a clarity so sharp it almost calmed her, that she could not go back to Caspian’s penthouse tonight. She could not return to the place she had mistaken for home.
“Take me to the Davenport residence,” she said.
As the car pulled away, her phone buzzed.
A message from Ethan, sent only minutes earlier.
Roman Morelli’s team confirmed. The engagement terms are ready when you are.
Camille closed her eyes, letting the sting of Caspian’s hand become something else inside her—something steady, something focused, something final.
She had spent seven years being his secret.
She was done paying the price for it.
