Camilla's POV
I stared at my phone screen, reading the same email for what felt like countless times. The words remained unchanged no matter how desperately I wished they would transform into something different, something bearable.
This couldn't be happening to me.
Not now. Not when I had finally built a life here that made sense.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the message again, searching for some loophole, some misunderstanding I might have missed. But the corporate language was crystal clear in its cold efficiency. They wanted me back in America. Not requested. Demanded.
The phone felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in my hands.
"Mommy, your pasta is getting cold."
Elsie's gentle voice cut through my panic. I looked up to find her watching me with those perceptive brown eyes that missed nothing. Her fork hovered over her plate, concern written across her small features.
