Chapter 4

STEFAN'S POINT OF VIEW

The scotch burned going down, but I poured another anyway. My third? Fourth? I'd lost count somewhere between signing those divorce papers and watching Camille walk away.

Our wedding photo still sat on my desk, mocking me. Camille's genuine smile, my distracted eyes, already looking past her, always looking for Rose.

Rose.

Even her name felt like betrayal now.

My phone lit up with another message from her: "Darling, stop drinking and come over. We should celebrate."

Celebrate. Like we hadn't just destroyed someone who loved us. Someone who'd given me three years of devotion I never deserved.

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Stefan?" Camille's voice was small, uncertain. "Did I do something wrong?"

I looked up from my laptop, irritated at the interruption. She stood in the doorway of my home office, holding a plate of something that smelled amazing.

"I made that pasta you mentioned. The one with truffles?" Her eyes were hopeful. "Rose gave me the recipe..."

Of course she had. Rose had made that pasta for me in Rome, years ago. Back when we were... whatever we were.

"I'm busy." I didn't even look at the plate. "Just leave it."

"Oh." A pause. "It's just, you've been working late all week, and I thought..."

"Camille." My voice sharp with an anger that wasn't really meant for her. "I said I'm busy."

She left the plate and disappeared, quiet as always. The pasta sat untouched until morning, a perfect recreation of a memory that belonged to another woman.

I hurled my glass at the wall, watching crystal shatter like the life I'd built on lies.

cruel. Not just at the end, but throughout our marriage. Every missed dinner, every forgotten anniversary, every time I'd chosen work over her, all excuses to avoid the guilt of wanting her

buzzed again. Mother

from Rose. Are you alright? Do you need anything? I always said Camille wasn't suited for our

phone, remembering another

voice was gentle as she poured me another drink. We were alone in my office after another

bitterness from my

musical, practiced. Everything about her was practiced. "Are you saying you

passion and plans, ended by her sudden departure to London. Or

did you really leave?" The question slipped out, colored by whiskey

forbidden.

we? I couldn't remember anymore. Everything from that time felt hazy, manipulated. Like watching a play where

whispered, too close

something different. They

this one from last

was bright, genuine.

divorce papers burned in my briefcase, Rose's perfume still lingering on

grabbed my keys, avoiding

slightly. "Will you be home for dinner? I

"Don't wait up."

spent that evening with Rose, planning how to break

in Rome, all those years

stroking my hair. "A clean break. Camille will

The look in her eyes when she'd

startling me from the

coiffed even

Drinking alone in

"Not now, Mother."

the room, surveying the broken glass with disapproval. "Rose is worried about you.

harsh and broken. "Like you were worried about Camille all

you." Mother's voice hardened.

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