Chapter 131

Chapter 131:

“And we want to apologize,” Margaret added. “Not because we expect forgiveness. We don’t deserve that. But because you deserve to hear it.”

Camille stared at them, these strangers who shared her blood. She had imagined this moment, confronting them, making them suffer for their betrayal, walking away triumphant. Victoria had trained her for that scenario.

But Victoria hadn’t prepared her for genuine remorse, for her proud father with reddened eyes, for her perfectly composed mother reduced to tears.

“You chose her,” Camille said, harder than she intended. “When I told you about her affair with Stefan. When I needed you most. You chose her.”

“Yes,” Richard admitted. “And it will haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

“We believed what we wanted to believe,” Margaret added. “That our perfect family couldn’t possibly hide such ugly truths. That our adopted daughter couldn’t be capable of such calculation.”

“And then she tried to kill me,” Camille said flatly.

Her parents flinched.

“Yes,” Margaret whispered. “And we didn’t know. Not until it was too late.”

“We’re not asking for forgiveness,” Richard said. “Or for you to come back to us. We know that’s not possible.”

“What do you want, then?” Camille asked, steadier than she felt.

Margaret reached across the table, stopping just short of touching Camille’s hand. “Just… to know you. In whatever way you’ll allow. On your terms.”

“To be whatever you’ll permit us to be in your life,” Richard added. “Even if it’s just distant acquaintances who meet for coffee once a year.”

Camille looked down at the journals. The tangible evidence of her childhood suffering, preserved by the very people who had failed to protect her from it.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” she said honestly.

Your new favorite stories are at gαℓησν𝒆𝓁s․com

“We understand,” Margaret nodded, drawing back her hand. “The journals are yours regardless. No strings attached.”

A strange feeling washed over Camille, not quite forgiveness, but something adjacent to it. Recognition, perhaps, that her parents were as human and flawed as she was. That Rose had manipulated them too, in her way.

“I need time,” Camille said finally. “This isn’t something I can decide today.”

Hope flickered in her mother’s eyes, fragile, cautious hope. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

“But,” Camille continued. “I could perhaps… meet occasionally. Not at the house. Not with Rose.” Her voice hardened on her sister’s name. “Neutral ground, like this. Just to talk.”

The relief on her parents’ faces was painful to witness. It spoke of months of grief, of regret, of the terrible belief that their daughter was dead, and then the equally terrible knowledge that she had survived only to rightfully despise them.

.

.

.