SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan)

Chapter 2

Camille's point of view

The house was quiet, too quiet. I slipped in through the side door, locking it softly behind me. The air smelled like lemon polish and roses, just like it always did. It felt strange to be back, like stepping into someone else's life.

The kitchen was dark except for the faint glow of the fridge light. I crept up the stairs, careful to skip the third step that creaked. Every sound I made felt loud, like the house itself was listening.

When I reached my bedroom door, I stopped. It was open a crack, just like I'd left it all those years ago. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside and shut the door.

My childhood bedroom hadn't changed in three years. Same pale pink walls, same white furniture, same collection of second-place trophies. Rose's first-place ones used to shine in the room next door.

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror, the same one where I'd practiced my wedding makeup three years ago, Rose standing behind me with that perfect smile. Now my mascara was smeared, hair wild, designer dress wrinkled. Mom would have a fit if she saw me like this.

The clock on my nightstand read 10:47 PM. I'd been sitting here for hours, packing what little of my old life I wanted to keep. Amazing how seventeen years in this house fit into one duffel bag.

My phone buzzed again, the twentieth time in an hour. This time it was Mom.

"Camille, this is ridiculous. Come home so we can discuss this like adults. Rose is worried sick..."

I hung up. Of course Rose was worried. Her carefully laid plans were unraveling. The front door clicked open downstairs. I froze, listening to familiar footsteps on hardwood. The slight tap of heels, the whisper of expensive fabric.

"Camille?" Mom's voice floated up the stairs. "Darling, I know you're here. The housekeeper saw your car."

I should have parked around the block. Should have been smarter, faster, better at disappearing. But I'd never been the clever one, had I? That was Rose's role.

More footsteps. A deeper voice, Dad, probably called home from work to deal with his hysterical younger daughter. Again.

"Princess?" His voice carried that same gentle tone he'd used when I was twelve, crying about Rose getting my spot in the school play. "Let's talk about this."

A third set of footsteps made my blood freeze. Lighter, more graceful. Perfect, like everything else about her.

Rose's voice dripped concern. "Sweetie, please.

was finalized. Mom and Dad beaming, Rose radiant in her new dress, thirteen-year-old

What a joke.

like

practicing for months!" I clutched my script, tears

gentle as always. "Oh, sweetie. I didn't mean to take your part. I just... the words came so naturally in the audition. Mrs. Bennett said I had a

said Rose had a gift. For music, for acting, for making people

that special gleam that always meant trouble. "Maybe you could help me practice? Be my supporting

did. Because saying no to Rose meant

Rose brought the audience to tears. Afterward, Mom bought her roses. Dad took us

Rose's best lines during our "practice sessions." Or that her dramatic monologue had been

had a gift

Mom's voice sharpened. "This behavior is completely

my bedroom

portrait, Mom in her designer suit, Dad looking distinguished in his

steady. "Shouldn't you be comforting

the performer.

my husband? Or how you set

already had tears forming. Perfect, delicate tears that never smeared

whispered. "Lashing out. You

again. Show them the ring, Rose. The one Stefan gave you two months ago

supposedly too sick to attend the charity

face darkened. But Rose, Rose's mask slipped for just a second.

like that," she

week, giving me marriage advice while sleeping with my husband. Tell them about all the

stepped forward.

what, Mom? Never lie? Never manipulate? Never steal something that belonged to her sister?" I pulled out my phone,