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.

our marriage. Every missed dinner, every forgotten anniversary, every time I'd chosen

buzzed again.

heard from Rose. Are you alright? Do you need anything? I always

phone, remembering another moment I'd tried

Stefan." Rose's voice was gentle as she poured me another drink. We were alone

the bitterness from my voice.

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

of passion and plans, ended by her

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

and forbidden. "Camille needed a chance at happiness. We

that time felt hazy, manipulated. Like watching a play where I'd

too close

said something

memory surfaced, this one from last week. The moment everything

breakfast." Camille's smile was bright, genuine.

in my briefcase, Rose's perfume still lingering on my

I grabbed my keys, avoiding

voice cracked slightly. "Will you be home

"Don't wait up."

that evening with Rose, planning how to break

in Rome, all those years

said, stroking my hair. "A clean break. Camille will

The look in her eyes when she'd

office door opened, startling me from

coiffed even at

Drinking alone in

"Not now, Mother."

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

broken. "Like you were worried about Camille all

right for you." Mother's voice

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