Camilla
The ballroom shimmered under a thousand crystal lights, a glittering cage of wealth and whispers. I stood at the edge of the charity gala, my arm looped through Michael's, my smile so polished it could've passed for porcelain.
The air smelled of champagne and ambition, and every laugh, every clink of glass, felt like a performance I was expected to direct. My dress, a deep emerald gown that hugged my curves and flowed like liquid silk, was my armor tonight. I'd chosen it deliberately, knowing the cameras would eat it up, knowing the headlines would call me radiant instead of ruined.
At least for one night.
Michael's hand rested on the small of my back, a touch that was all for show. His suit was impeccable, as always, his jaw set in that way that made him look like he owned the room. To the world, we were MICAM, the untouchable power couple, smiling through the storm. To me, we were a house of cards, one wrong breath away from collapse.
"Keep smiling, Camilla," he murmured, his voice low enough to blend with the hum of the crowd. "The vultures are circling."
I tilted my head, letting my lips curve just a fraction wider. "Oh, darling, I've been smiling so long my face might just stay this way. Imagine the headlines: 'Mrs. Locke's Face Freezes in Perfect Grin.'"
His mouth twitched into something that was not quite a smile... but it was something. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw the boy who'd snuck in through my window all the time when we were teens, but then it was gone just as fast as it came, and he looked away. "Don't push it."
I smiled. "Oh but pushing's precisely what I'm good at, honey."
The gala was a who's-who of the city's elite- bankers, CEOs, influencers, all draped in designer labels and fake sincerity. Reporters hovered near the velvet ropes, their cameras flashing like gunfire. I caught little snippets of their chatter, here and there...
"...seen the photo with Emily Quinn? Think there's trouble in paradise?"
"Camilla's here, though. Gotta give her points for showing up after that tape."
My stomach twisted, but I kept my chin high and my posture picture perfect.
I leaned into Michael and let my fingers brush his sleeve, then whispered, "How many questions about Emily do you think I can dodge before I snap?"
He didn't look at me. "As many as it takes to keep them from writing another headline."
"Charming," I muttered.
I straightened as a reporter broke through the crowd, her microphone thrust forward it almost brushed my nose. "Mrs. Locke! Over here!"
She was young and obviously hungry, her eyes gleamed with the promise of a scoop. "Care to comment on the rumors about your husband and Emily Quinn?"
The room seemed to hush, every head turning toward me. Michael's hand tightened on my back. I could feel Emily's presence across the room seated at a table near the stage, her red dress a deliberate beacon for attention as she leaned toward some suit, laughing. She hadn't looked at me yet, but I knew she was watching.
I flashed the reporter my brightest smile, the one I'd practiced in front of mirrors since I was sixteen. "Rumors are just that, sweetheart... rumors. Michael and I are stronger than ever. I turned to him, my eyes daring him to contradict me. "Isn't that right, darling?"
He met my gaze with a smile then leaned down to press a kiss to my temple. The crowd cooed, cameras flashing. "Couldn't have said it better myself," he said, his voice smooth.
The reporter wasn't done. "And the tape, Mrs. Locke? Any truth to the allegations?"
My heart thudded, but I didn't flinch. "Oh, you mean that little piece of fiction?" I laughed, light and breezy, like I was discussing a bad rom-com. "I'm flattered someone went to all that trouble to edit me into their fantasy. But let's be real here, my life's exciting enough without needing special effects."
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, and the reporter's shoulders relaxed, her pen scribbling furiously. "So you're saying it's fake?"
"I'm saying," I replied, my tone sharp but sweet, "that anyone who believes everything they see on a screen probably thinks reality TV is unscripted. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a charity to support."
I turned away, Michael's hand guiding me toward our table, and I caught the approving nod from Adrian, our head of PR, standing near the bar.
He mouthed, "Nailed it," and I allowed myself a small flicker of triumph. They could throw their questions, their doubts, their knives. I'd catch them all and toss them back with a smile.
As we reached our table, I saw Emily now standing, her wine glass dangling carelessly in one hand as she chatted with a group of investors. Her eyes darted to me just for a second, and her lips curved into that smug, knowing smile that made my blood boil. She whispered something to the man beside her, and he glanced my way, his expression a mix of pity and curiosity.
"Careful, Milla," Michael said under his breath. "Don't give her the satisfaction."
I shot him a look. "Satisfaction? You already gave her the satisfaction the moment you brought her into our home."
He clenched his jaw, but said nothing, pulling out my chair with a flourish that was all for show. I sat, smoothing my dress, and tried to ignore the way Emily's laughter carried across the room like a deliberate torment.
The evening dragged on- speeches about the charity's mission, clinking glasses, forced small talk with people who couldn't stop staring at my ring finger.
I played my part... laughing at the right moments, nodding at the right stories, but every word felt like swallowing glass. My head throbbed, a dull ache that had been creeping in all day, and my hands trembled slightly as I reached for my water glass.
Please not now, I thought. Not in front of them again.
As if things couldn't get any worse, I saw Emily beginning to walk over, her hips swaying like she was walking a runway. She held a glass of red wine, the liquid catching the light as she stopped beside our table. "Camilla," she purred, her voice dripping with false warmth. "That dress is stunning. You always know how to steal the show."
I tilted my head, and put on my best fake smile. "Thank you, Emily. Though it seems you're doing a fine job of stealing things yourself these days."
Her eyes glittered, but before she could respond, her hand "slipped." The wine glass tilted, and a crimson splash arced across my lap, soaking the emerald fabric.
Gasps rippled around us, heads turning, cameras clicking.
"Oh, my goodness!" Emily exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth in mock horror. "I'm so clumsy. I'm so sorry, Camilla."
I stood, the wine dripping down my thighs, staining the dress like blood. My pulse roared in my ears, but I forced my voice to stay steady. "No harm done," I said, my smile unwavering. "It's just wine. Though I must say, Emily, your aim could use some work. You missed my face by a mile."
Emily's smile faltered, just for a second, before she recovered. "You're such a good sport," she said, her tone syrupy. "I'll have to make it up to you."
"Oh, don't bother," I replied, stepping closer, my voice low enough for just her. "I'd hate for you to strain yourself trying to be something you're not. Like say... classy."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't take the bait.
Instead, she turned to Michael, her hand brushing his shoulder as she leaned in to whisper something. His face remained impassive, but he didn't pull away, and that small gesture felt like a knife twisting in my chest.
I excused myself, murmuring something about cleaning up, and made my way to the restroom, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The hallway was quieter, the noise of the gala muffled, and I leaned against the wall for a moment, closing my eyes. My head spun, and my stomach churned, not just from the wine or the humiliation but from the weight of it all... the cancer, the tape, Michael's betrayal, Emily's stupid smug face.
I pressed a hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow down.
You're fine, I told myself. You've handled worse. You're Camilla fucking Locke.
But the words felt hollow. They were becoming a mantra I no longer believed.
I pushed into the restroom, splashing cold water on my wrists, trying to blot the wine from my dress with a handful of paper towels. No matter what I did the stain just wouldn't budge. It stayed a deep dark smear across the fabric and I couldn't help but think it was fitting. My life was a stain now... one I couldn't scrub out no matter how hard I tried.
When I returned to the gala, Michael was at the bar, alone for once, his back to the crowd. I saw my chance and took it, sliding onto the stool beside him. "We need to talk," I said, keeping my voice low.
He didn't look at me, just sipped his whiskey. "About what?"
"Vincent Calder," I said, watching his reaction. "I overheard you last night. What's he offering you? Another business proposal? Another chance to screw us over?"
His fingers tightened around the glass, but his voice stayed cold. "My business isn't your concern anymore, Camilla."
I leaned closer, my anger flaring. "It damn well is when it involves the man who has tried over and over again to ruin what we built. What's the deal, Michael? What's he dangling this time?"
He turned to me then, his eyes narrowing. "You lost the right to ask about my business the moment you let four other men into yours."
The words hit like a slap and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I wanted to scream the truth at him- that the tape wasn't what it seemed, that Vincent had forced my hand and I'd done it all to protect him.
But the words stuck in my throat, trapped by the contract and by the fear of what Vincent would do if I spoke.
Instead, I forced a bitter laugh. "Oh, that's rich. You're out here parading Emily like a trophy and I'm the one who's lost rights?"
I stood up to leave then said, "Be sure to tell me, Michael, how it feels to be Vincent's puppet again." Then I walked away.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The rest of the night was a blur of forced smiles and polite nods. My dress was still damp and stained but I could barely even notice it anymore. My eyes grew heavier with every step.
By the time we could finally break free, the cameras had their shots, the reporters had their quotes, and I had nothing but a gnawing sense of dread. Michael drove us home in silence with his eyes locked on the road.
At the mansion, I slipped off my heels and headed to the bedroom, my purse slung over my shoulder. As I tossed it onto the bed, I heard something crinkle inside.
I unzipped it and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It's edges were uneven, like it had been torn from a notebook. Frowning, I unfolded it and my heart stopped as I read the words scrawled in black ink.
"I know the truth. And soon, you won't be able to protect him anymore."