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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