Chapter 405
Chapter 405:
“At the office,” Camille continued, twisting the cap off her water. “Your mother.”
The stillness that followed was absolute. Alexander’s hand froze mid-turn of a page. His shoulders stiffened under his dress shirt. When he finally looked up, his eyes had turned to ice.
“My mother?” he repeated, his voice flat. “Eleanor Pierce came to your office?”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
Alexander set his glass down with careful precision. “And what did my mother want after seven years of silence?”
The coldness in his voice sent a chill through Camille. This was a side of Alexander she rarely saw—the hard edge beneath his usual warmth.
“She wants to see you. To talk.” Camille moved closer, resting her hands on the counter. “She says she and your father need to apologize.”
Alexander laughed, a sharp sound with no humor in it. “Apologize. That’s rich.” He stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the floor. “Did she tell you why they might need to apologize? Did she share that particular story?”
“Some of it,” Camille said carefully. “About the accident. About James.”
“About how they chose to believe my brother instead of me?” Alexander’s voice rose slightly. “About how they visited him…”
“Daily while I was learning to walk again? About how they helped him avoid charges while I went through three surgeries alone?”
He turned away, moving to the window. Outside, the city sparkled in the darkness, a thousand lights against the night sky.
“Alexander…”
“No.” His voice cut through the room. “Whatever else she told you, whatever she asked, the answer is no. I’m not interested.”
Camille took a slow breath. “She mentioned James’s death. Your father’s stroke.”
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Alexander’s reflection in the window showed no reaction, but his knuckles whitened where he gripped the sill.
“She said they tried to reach you. That they came to your apartment after James’s funeral…”
“They did,” Alexander said coldly. “With his confession letter in hand. Four years too late.”
“You knew about the letter?” Camille asked, surprised.
“Of course I knew,” Alexander said, turning to face her. “They sent it by courier after I refused to see them. I sent it back unopened.”
Camille moved toward him, stopping when he took a step back. “She brought a photo. Of you as a child. Winning a sailing competition.”
Something flickered across his face—pain, quickly masked by anger. “She kept my baby pictures. How touching.”
“Alexander, please…”
“Please what, Camille?” His voice was dangerously calm now. “Please meet with the people who abandoned me when I needed them most? Please give them absolution so they can sleep better at night? I already refused when my father had his stroke last month. What makes you think I’ve changed my mind?”
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