Chapter 425

Chapter 425:

“Believe what you want.” The words came out harsher than intended.

Silence settled over them, heavy as a shroud. The waiter arrived with their main course, murmuring in Italian as he arranged dishes neither of them now had any appetite for. Camille picked at her food, while Alexander drained his wineglass and signaled for another.

“I thought marriage meant sharing burdens,” Camille said finally, her voice barely audible. “I’ve told you everything about me—my pain, my fears, my nightmares. And somehow, you can’t give me even a glimpse of whatever’s tearing you apart.”

Guilt twisted in Alexander’s gut, but he remained silent. What could he possibly say? That he’d married her while plotting against the only mother figure she’d ever known? That each time Victoria texted, he imagined her world crumbling as revenge for his uncle’s death?

Camille watched him, waiting for a response that never came. Finally, she placed her napkin on the table. “I’d like to go back to the villa.”

The bill settled, and they walked back in silence, the night air thick with unspoken words. Stars wheeled overhead, indifferent to human suffering. The cliffside path stretched before them, beauty and danger side by side—one misstep could send them plummeting into darkness.

Much like his current situation, Alexander thought bitterly.

At the villa, Camille disappeared into the bathroom. Alexander heard the shower running, giving him a moment alone with his torment. He removed his jacket, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. From his suitcase, he retrieved the book containing his uncle’s lily, staring at the dried petals now brown at the edges.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered to the flower, to the ghost it represented. “Help me.”

Only silence answered him. His uncle had been dead seven years, bones in a grave, unable to guide him through this impossible choice. Honor his vow for revenge, or protect the woman he loved. Destroy Victoria, or preserve his marriage.

The bathroom door opened. Camille emerged, wrapped in a hotel robe, hair damp, face scrubbed clean of makeup. Even in her obvious hurt and confusion, she took his breath away.

“I packed something,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “For our last night here. But I think we need it now.”

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She withdrew a small box from her suitcase, offering it to him. Inside lay two glass vials on silver chains, each containing what appeared to be sand.

“From our secret cove,” she explained. “One for each of us. In the darkest times, to remember this place. To remember us. What we can be when nothing stands between us.”

Alexander stared at the simple gift, its symbolism crushing him. Camille had felt their perfect connection those first days, before his inner conflict had begun poisoning everything between them. She was fighting to recapture it, to bridge whatever chasm had opened in their marriage.

Without warning, tears spilled down his cheeks. Real, unexpected, uncontrollable. Years of suppressed grief and rage finally finding an outlet. Not for Camille’s benefit, not calculated for sympathy, but genuine emotional collapse.

“Alex,” she whispered, her arms encircling him. “Oh God, Alex.”

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