Chapter 133
Chapter 133:
They brought my childhood journals, she typed.
Three dots appeared immediately, then: Are you okay?
The question lingered on her screen. Was she? The meeting had opened old wounds, but something else too, a tiny crack in the wall she’d built around her heart. Not forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But acknowledgment, at least, that healing might someday be possible.
“I think I will be,” she replied finally. Coming down now.
Camille gathered the journals, each one a piece of her past she’d thought lost forever. As she rode the elevator down, she felt strangely lighter, as if she’d set down a burden she hadn’t realized she was carrying.
She’d expected to feel triumph in facing her parents, in showing them the powerful woman she’d become without them. Instead, she felt something more complicated—grief for what had been lost, relief at the truth finally being acknowledged, and a tiny, cautious seed of possibility for a different future than the one Victoria had planned.
Alexander waited in the lobby, his face lighting up when he saw her. He didn’t ask questions, simply offered his hand. Camille took it, feeling its strength and steadiness.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
But as they walked out into the bright afternoon sun, Camille wondered, with Victoria’s mansion on one side and her parents’ house on the other, where home really was. And if, someday, she might build one that was truly her own.
Stefan Rodriguez sat at the corner table of the dimly lit bar, nursing a drink he didn’t want. The place reeked of stale beer and cheap perfume, nothing like the upscale establishments he’d frequented during better days. But that was the point. No one would recognize him here. No reporters lurking in corners, no business associates to witness his fall from grace.
No one except the woman who had helped destroy his life.
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The door swung open, letting in a blast of chilly evening air. Rose Lewis stood framed in the doorway, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. When she spotted Stefan, her face hardened into the mask he’d grown too familiar with—beautiful and cold as carved ice.
She wore black from head to toe, her outfit probably costing more than most people’s monthly rent, despite her recent financial troubles. Always keeping up appearances. Always the perfect facade.
Rose threaded her way between tables, ignoring the appreciative glances from men seated at the bar. She slid into the booth across from Stefan without a greeting.
“This better be important,” she said, her voice clipped. “I have plans tonight.”
“With Herod Preston?” Stefan watched her face, catching the flicker of shock before she masked it.
.
.
.