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 work over

buzzed again. Mother this

Do you

silenced the phone, remembering another moment I'd tried to

was gentle as she poured me another drink. We were alone in my office after another disastrous family dinner. "Maybe if you

from my voice. "Teaching her all

practiced. Everything about her was

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

The question slipped out, colored by whiskey and old

cheek, familiar and forbidden. "Camille needed a chance at happiness.

couldn't remember anymore. Everything from that time felt hazy, manipulated.

whispered, too close now. "More than I ever

something different. They always

memory surfaced, this one from last

Camille's smile was bright, genuine. Always so damn

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

grabbed my keys, avoiding her eyes. "Early

you be home for dinner?

"Don't wait up."

how to break the

perfume she'd worn in Rome,

my

in her eyes when

office door opened, startling me from the memory. Mother

coiffed even

alone

"Not now, Mother."

the room, surveying the broken glass with

"Like you

was never right for you." Mother's voice hardened.

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