SCORNED EX WIFE

Chapter 1

CAMILLE'S POINT OF VIEW

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days of trying to be the perfect wife, and this was my reward divorce papers on our anniversary.

I stared at Stefan's perfect signature on the last page, the ink still fresh. He must have signed them this morning, probably right after I'd left that stupid handmade card on his desk. The one I'd spent hours making, like a fool who still believed in fairy tales.

The anniversary card I made for my husband Stefan still sat on the kitchen counter, untouched. Three years of marriage summed up in a handmade gesture he couldn't even bother to open. I'd spent hours on it last night, writing words I thought mattered.

My coffee had gone cold. Funny how you notice small things when your world is falling apart.

"Sign here. And here." Stefan's voice was distant, businesslike. He'd laid out the divorce papers like contracts at one of his meetings, sticky tabs marking each signature line. "The highlighted sections need initials."

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. "You're doing this today? On our anniversary?"

"Camille." He sighed, that familiar sound of disappointment I'd heard so many times before. "There's no point dragging this out."

The morning sun streamed through our kitchen windows, catching the diamond on my finger. Three carats, princess cut, picked out by his mother. "Not your style, dear, but it's what a Rodriguez wife should wear," she'd said at the time. Like everything else in my life, it had never really been mine.

"Is there someone else?"

The question hung in the air between us. Stefan straightened his tie, Italian silk, the blue one I'd given him for Christmas. "Yes."

One word. That's all it took to erase three years of trying to be perfect.

"How long?"

"Two months." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "She came back to town and..."

"Two months," I repeated. All those late nights at the office. The missed dinners. The way he'd stopped kissing me goodbye in the mornings. "Were you ever going to tell me? Or just keep lying until the papers were ready?"

"I didn't want to hurt you."

A laugh bubbled up, harsh, unfamiliar. "That's thoughtful of you."

My hand knocked against my coffee mug, sending it crashing to the floor. Dark liquid spread across the pristine tiles, staining the grout I'd scrubbed on hands and knees last week because his mother was coming to visit.

"Let me get that..." Stefan reached for the paper towels.

"Don't." My voice cracked. "Just... don't pretend to care now."

I bent to pick up the broken pieces. A photo slipped from between the divorce

papers, landing face-up in the spilled coffee.

The world stopped.

I knew that smile. Those eyes. That perfectly poised expression that had haunted every family photo since I was twelve.

"Rose?" My sister's name tasted like poison. "Your first love was Rose?"

Stefan's silence said everything.

Memories hit like punches to the gut. Rose helping me pick out my wedding dress. Rose giving toasts at our engagement party. Rose calling every week to check on my marriage, to give advice about keeping Stefan happy.

My adopted sister. My parents' golden child. The one they'd chosen to love.

"She never left town, did she?" The pieces were falling into place. "She's been here the whole time, waiting. Playing the supportive sister while you both laughed at stupid, naive Camille."

"It wasn't like that." Stefan ran his hands through his hair, that gesture I used to find endearing. "We tried to fight it. But some people are just meant to..."

"If you say 'meant to be' I swear I'll throw this mug at your head." My fingers tightened around the broken ceramic. "How long were you together before? Before me?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Four years. Until she got the job offer in London." Four years. The same time I'd started dating Stefan. The same time Rose had suddenly become my biggest cheerleader, pushing me toward him.

"She set this up," I whispered. "All of it. And I fell for every piece."

"Camille, you're being dramatic. Rose cares about you."

"Like she cared when she told my first boyfriend I was damaged goods? Or when she convinced my parents I was too unstable for college?" The broken mug cut into my palm, but I barely felt it. "She's been sabotaging me my whole life, and I kept making excuses because that's what good sisters do, right?"

Blood dripped onto the divorce papers. Stefan reached for my hand but I jerked away.

"Don't touch me." I grabbed a dish towel, wrapping it around my palm. "Where is she now? Waiting to comfort me through my divorce? Planning your next wedding?"

"She wanted to be here, but I thought it would be better..."

"Better?" I laughed again, the sound edged with hysteria. "Yes, you've both been

so concerned with what's better for me. Such caring people."

I picked up the pen, the Mont Blanc he'd given me on our first anniversary. The one Rose had helped him choose.

"Camille, wait. We should talk about this properly."

I signed every page, my signature perfectly steady. Let them see I wasn't breaking. Let them think they'd won.

"I'm done talking." I gathered my purse, the signed papers, Rose's photo. "Done pretending. Done being the good sister, the perfect wife, the daughter who never complains."

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you. Away from her. Away from everyone who thinks Camille Lewis is someone they can use and discard."

My phone buzzed, Rose's smiling face lit up the screen. Right on cue, coming to play her part.

I declined the call and walked to the door. Behind me, Stefan called out, "You can't just leave. We need to discuss arrangements, the house, the accounts..."

"You can have it all." I turned to face him one last time. "The house, the cars, the life you built on lies. I don't want anything that reminds me of either of you."

"Camille, please..."

"Goodbye, Stefan." I smiled, and something in my expression made him step back. "Give Rose my love. Tell her thank you, actually."

"For what?"

"For finally showing me the truth. About her, about you, about who I need to become."

I walked out of that house, out of that life, leaving bloody fingerprints on the door handle. Let them try to erase those as easily as they'd erased me.

Three years of pretending to be someone I wasn't. Three years of swallowing pain

and making excuses for people who never deserved my loyalty.

My phone buzzed again. Rose. Then my mother. Then Stefan. One by one, I blocked them all.

Every connection to the life I thought I had to live.

In my rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Tears streaked my makeup, blood stained my dress, my hair had come loose from its perfect twist.

I looked nothing like the polished, proper wife Stefan Rodriguez had married.

Chapter 2

Camille's point of view

The house was quiet, too quiet. I slipped in through the side door, locking it softly behind me. The air smelled like lemon polish and roses, just like it always did. It felt strange to be back, like stepping into someone else's life.

The kitchen was dark except for the faint glow of the fridge light. I crept up the stairs, careful to skip the third step that creaked. Every sound I made felt loud, like the house itself was listening.

When I reached my bedroom door, I stopped. It was open a crack, just like I'd left it all those years ago. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside and shut the door.

My childhood bedroom hadn't changed in three years. Same pale pink walls, same white furniture, same collection of second-place trophies. Rose's first-place ones used to shine in the room next door.

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror, the same one where I'd practiced my wedding makeup three years ago, Rose standing behind me with that perfect smile. Now my mascara was smeared, hair wild, designer dress wrinkled. Mom would have a fit if she saw me like this.

The clock on my nightstand read 10:47 PM. I'd been sitting here for hours, packing what little of my old life I wanted to keep. Amazing how seventeen years in this house fit into one duffel bag.

My phone buzzed again, the twentieth time in an hour. This time it was Mom.

"Camille, this is ridiculous. Come home so we can discuss this like adults. Rose is worried sick..."

I hung up. Of course Rose was worried. Her carefully laid plans were unraveling. The front door clicked open downstairs. I froze, listening to familiar footsteps on hardwood. The slight tap of heels, the whisper of expensive fabric.

"Camille?" Mom's voice floated up the stairs. "Darling, I know you're here. The housekeeper saw your car."

I should have parked around the block. Should have been smarter, faster, better at disappearing. But I'd never been the clever one, had I? That was Rose's role.

More footsteps. A deeper voice, Dad, probably called home from work to deal with his hysterical younger daughter. Again.

"Princess?" His voice carried that same gentle tone he'd used when I was twelve, crying about Rose getting my spot in the school play. "Let's talk about this."

A third set of footsteps made my blood freeze. Lighter, more graceful. Perfect, like everything else about her.

"Camille?" Rose's voice dripped concern. "Sweetie, please. Don't shut us out."

I looked at the family photo on my dresser, taken the day Rose's adoption was finalized. Mom and Dad beaming, Rose radiant in her new dress, thirteen-year-old me trying to smile through braces and acne. One big happy family.

What a joke.

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut:

"But I've been practicing for months!" I clutched my script, tears blurring the words. "Mrs. Bennett said the lead was mine!"

Rose touched my shoulder, gentle as always. "Oh, sweetie. I didn't mean to take your part. I just... the words came so naturally in the audition. Mrs. Bennett said I had a gift."

Of course she did. Everyone said Rose had a gift. For music, for acting, for making people love her.

"Maybe..." Rose's eyes lit up with that special gleam that always meant trouble. "Maybe you could help me practice? Be my supporting actress? We could make it our sister thing!"

I'd agreed. Because that's what good sisters did. Because saying no to Rose meant disappointed looks from Mom, lectures from Dad about family loyalty.

Opening night, I watched from the wings as Rose brought the audience to tears. Afterward, Mom bought her roses. Dad took us all to dinner.

No one mentioned that I'd written Rose's best lines during our "practice sessions." Or that her dramatic monologue had been word-for-word what I'd performed in my original audition.

Rose just had a gift for memorization, that's all.

"Camille Elizabeth Lewis!" Mom's voice sharpened. "This behavior is completely unacceptable."

I opened my bedroom door.

They stood in the hallway like a perfect family portrait, Mom in her designer suit, Dad looking distinguished in his work clothes, Rose wearing concern like the latest fashion trend.

"Hello, sister." My voice came out steady. "Shouldn't you be comforting your fiancé?"

Rose's eyes widened. Always the performer. "Camille, please. Let me explain..."

"Explain what? How you've been sleeping with my husband? Or how you set this whole thing up from the beginning?"

"What is she talking about?" Dad turned to Rose, who already had tears forming. Perfect, delicate tears that never smeared her makeup.

"She's upset," Rose whispered. "Lashing out. You know how she gets, Daddy."

"Don't." My laugh sounded strange, even to me. "Don't you dare play that card again. Show them the ring, Rose. The one Stefan gave you two months ago while

I was supposedly too sick to attend the charity gala."

Mom gasped. Dad's face darkened. But Rose, Rose's mask slipped for just a second. I saw it this time, that flash of cold calculation behind the concern.

"It wasn't like that," she started.

"Really? Then how was it? Explain to everyone how you've been calling me every week, giving me marriage advice while sleeping with my husband. Tell them about all the times you helped me pick out lingerie for anniversaries when Stefan was really working late with you."

"That's enough!" Mom stepped forward. "Rose would never..."

"Never what, Mom? Never lie? Never manipulate? Never steal something that belonged to her sister?" I pulled out my phone, playing the last voicemail from Stefan.

His voice filled the hallway: "Rose is my soulmate, Camille. We tried to fight it, but some people are just meant to be together. You have to understand..."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rose recovered first. "I never meant to hurt you. We can't help who we love..."

The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed like a gunshot.

"Camille!" Mom grabbed my arm. "Have you lost your mind?"

"No," I said quietly, watching a red mark bloom on Rose's perfect face. "For the first time in fourteen years, I'm seeing clearly."

I walked past them, duffel bag in hand. Behind me, Rose's sobs started, the same

performance she'd perfected over years of turning everyone against me.

"Where are you going?" Dad called after me. "You can't just walk away from family!"

I paused at the top of the stairs, looking back at my so-called family. Mom comforting Rose, Dad looking torn, and my sister watching me through her tears with eyes that held no warmth at all.

"Family?" I smiled, and something in my expression made them all step back. "No, this isn't family. This is a game. And for fourteen years, I've been playing by Rose's rules."

"Camille, please," Rose reached for me, ever the caring sister. "Let me make this right."

I caught her wrist before she could touch me. "You taught me well, big sister. About manipulation. About patience. About waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

Her eyes widened, real fear this time, not performed.

"Thank you for the lessons," I whispered, letting her go. "Now watch how well I learned them."

I walked down the stairs, ignoring their calls. In the foyer mirror, I caught one last glimpse of myself, mascara-stained, wild-eyed, finally unchained.

Chapter 3

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

I swirled the champagne in my crystal flute, watching the bubbles dance. Victory tasted sweet, just like I'd imagined all these years. The living room of my penthouse apartment overlooked the city where I'd spent twenty years pretending to be the perfect adopted daughter, the loving sister, the supportive friend.

What a joke.

"To freedom," I whispered to my reflection in the window. The woman staring back at me smiled, perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect lies. Just like always.

My phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Stefan. He'd been calling non- stop since Camille walked out, probably worried I'd change my mind now that everything was in the open. Poor, predictable Stefan. Still thinking he was in control of any of this.

I kicked off my Louboutins and sank into the leather couch, letting memories wash over me like warm wine.

The first time I saw Camille Lewis, I hated her.

I was thirteen, fresh out of foster care, desperate to please my new parents. They'd brought me to this massive house with its manicured lawn and marble floors, promising me a fresh start. A real family.

Then this skinny thing with braces and messy hair came bouncing down the stairs, all eager smiles and innocent eyes.

"Hi! I'm Camille. I've always wanted a sister!"

She hugged me right there in the foyer, not caring that my clothes were

secondhand or that I smelled like the group home's industrial detergent. Just pure, genuine joy at having a sister.

I wanted to vomit.

Because there she was, this awkward, imperfect girl who had everything I'd spent thirteen years dreaming about. Parents who actually wanted her. A home she belonged in. A future secured by the Lewis family name.

And she didn't even appreciate it properly.

I watched her over dinner that first night, watched how she slouched in her chair and talked with her mouth full. How she didn't know which fork to use for salad. How she laughed too loud and asked too many questions.

"Rose has such lovely manners," Mrs. Lewis.... Mom..... had said, smiling at me. "Perhaps you could learn from your new sister, Camille."

That's when I saw it. The first crack in Camille's perfect world. The slight dimming of her smile, the way she sat up straighter, tried harder.

It was beautiful.

My phone buzzed again, pulling me back to the present. Stefan's face lit up my screen, his fifth call in an hour. With a sigh, I answered.

"Darling, you're being needy."

"Rose." His voice was rough. Had he been drinking? "She's gone. Really gone. Blocked my number, cleaned out her closet..."

"Isn't that what we wanted?" I kept my voice gentle, soothing. The same tone I'd used all those times I'd counseled Camille through her marital problems. Problems I'd carefully orchestrated.

"I just... the way she looked at me..."

"Stefan, sweetheart." I let steel edge into my sweetness. "Are you having second thoughts? After everything we've been through?"

"No! No, of course not. I love you. I've always loved you."

"Then stop calling me about your ex-wife. It's pathetic."

I hung up, tossing the phone aside. Men were so predictably weak. Even Stefan, who I'd spent four years grooming before pushing him toward Camille, still needed constant management.

But he'd served his purpose. Just like everyone else in my carefully constructed game.

The family photo on my mantel caught my eye, my adoption day. I stood in the center, of course. Always the center. Camille pushed to the edge of the frame, trying so hard to smile through her insecurities.

God, it had been easy. Almost too easy.

A little whisper here about how Camille was unstable. A few concerned conversations with Mom about how worried I was about my dear sister's emotional state. Casual mentions to Dad about how Camille seemed to be struggling with basic adult responsibilities.

Fourteen years of careful groundwork, positioning myself as the responsible daughter, the achievable dream, while slowly crushing Camille's confidence, her relationships, her sense of self.

The college rejection was particularly inspired, if I do say so myself. All it took was one tearful conversation with Mom about finding Camille's "secret" diary, filled with dark thoughts and destructive plans. Plans I'd written myself, of course, in Camille's childish handwriting that I'd spent months practicing to forge.

Suddenly, their precious younger daughter wasn't ready for college. Needed time to "find herself." Needed to stay close to home where they could watch her.

Where I could watch her.

I took another sip of champagne, savoring the moment. Because this, this was what I'd really wanted all along. Not Stefan, he was just a useful pawn. Not the Lewis fortune, though that would come in time.

No, what I wanted was to watch perfect, precious Camille finally break. To see her realize that everything she thought she had family, love, security, had been built on my lies.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mom: "Rose, darling, please come over. Your father and I need to talk about what happened."

I smiled, already planning my performance. The tearful confusion, the reluctant confession about Stefan's pursuit, the gentle concern about Camille's mental state.

By the time I was done, they'd be thanking me for protecting them from their unstable daughter all these years.

Standing up, I walked to my closet, selecting the perfect outfit for my next scene. Something subtle but expensive. Grieving sister, not celebrating victor.

The massive walk-in closet had been Camille's wedding gift to me. "So you'll always have space for your amazing fashion sense," she'd said, hugging me tight.

Even then, even after years of watching me steal every spotlight, every opportunity, every scrap of parental approval, she'd still loved me. Still trusted me.

Idiot.

I pulled out a cream cashmere sweater, remembering how Camille used to borrow my clothes in high school. How I'd wait until she had something important, a date, a presentation, an interview, then suddenly remember I needed that exact outfit. She'd always given them back without argument. Always apologized for the inconvenience.

Always tried so hard to be the perfect sister.

My reflection caught my eye, and for a moment, just a moment, I saw something ugly there. Something that looked like the scared, angry foster kid who'd walked into the Lewis house all those years ago.

But then I blinked, and I was perfect Rose again. Flawless Rose. Rose who could do no wrong.

Slipping on my Cartier bracelet, another gift from my dear sister, I prepared for my next performance. The concerned family meeting would need just the right touch of reluctant honesty, devastated betrayal.

"Oh, Camille," I whispered to my reflection, practicing my worried frown. "What have you done to yourself?"

But as I turned to leave, something made me pause. That look in Camille's eyes before she'd walked out, I'd never seen it before. Not in twenty years of pushing her, testing her, breaking her.

It had looked almost like... understanding.

Like she'd finally seen through my mask to the truth underneath.

I shook off the uneasy feeling. Camille was weak, just like I'd made her. She'd run

away, lick her wounds, maybe try to start over somewhere new.

But she'd never be free of me. I'd made sure of that years ago.

 

Chapter 4

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.

God, I'd been cruel. Not just at the end, but throughout our marriage. Every missed dinner, every forgotten anniversary, every time I'd chosen work over her, all excuses to avoid the guilt of wanting her sister.

My phone buzzed again. Mother this time.

"Darling, I just heard from Rose. Are you alright? Do you need anything? I always said Camille wasn't suited for our family..."

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

"She's trying so hard, Stefan." Rose's voice was gentle as she poured me another drink. We were alone in my office after another disastrous family dinner. "Maybe if you gave her more guidance..."

"Like you did?" I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Teaching her all the ways to be perfect?"

Rose's laugh was musical, practiced. Everything about her was practiced. "Are you saying you preferred me imperfect?"

The air between us crackled with unspoken history. Four years of passion and plans, ended by her sudden departure to London. Or so she'd claimed.

"Why did you really leave?" The question slipped out, colored by whiskey and old pain.

"You know why." She touched my cheek, familiar and forbidden. "Camille needed a chance at happiness. We both agreed..."

Had we? I couldn't remember anymore. Everything from that time felt hazy, manipulated. Like watching a play where I'd forgotten my lines.

"She loves you," Rose whispered, too close now. "More than I ever could."

But her eyes said something different. They always had.

Another memory surfaced, this one from last week. The moment everything changed.

"I made your favorite breakfast." Camille's smile was bright, genuine. Always so damn genuine. "Happy anniversary."

The divorce papers burned in my briefcase, Rose's perfume still lingering on my clothes from our late-night "meeting."

"I can't." I grabbed my keys, avoiding her eyes. "Early meeting."

"Oh." Her voice cracked slightly. "Will you be home for dinner? I thought we could..."

"Don't wait up."

I'd spent that evening with Rose, planning how to break the news. She'd worn the

same perfume she'd worn in Rome, all those years ago.

"It's kinder this way," she'd said, stroking my hair. "A clean break. Camille will understand eventually."

Would she? The look in her eyes when she'd seen Rose's photo...

My office door opened, startling me from the memory. Mother stood there,

perfectly coiffed even at midnight.

"Really, darling. Drinking alone in the dark?"

"Not now, Mother."

She clicked across the room, surveying the broken glass with disapproval. "Rose is worried about you. We all are."

"Worried?" I laughed, harsh and broken. "Like you were worried about Camille all these years?"

"That girl was never right for you." Mother's voice hardened. "Rose, on the other hand..."

"Stop." I stood, unsteady. "Just... stop."

"Stefan Rodriguez, you will not speak to me that way. I raised you better..."

"Did you?" The words exploded out of me. "You raised me to what? String along a woman who loved me while pining for her sister? Listen to you tear her down at every opportunity?"

Mother stepped back, shocked. In twenty eight years, I'd never raised my voice to her.

"Everything she did was wrong, wasn't it?" I continued, the scotch making me brave. "Her clothes, her manners, her cooking. Nothing was ever good enough. But Rose... Rose was perfect."

"Because she understands our world! She..."

"She understands manipulation." The truth hit me like a freight train. "She played us all. You, me, Camille..."

"Don't be ridiculous." Mother straightened her designer jacket. "Rose loves you. She always has."

Had she? Or had she loved the game more?

I remembered the cold calculation in her eyes when she'd orchestrated our "chance" meetings after returning from London. The way she'd encouraged Camille's insecurities while playing the supportive sister.

Even our reunion two months ago felt staged now. The charity gala, Camille conveniently "sick," Rose in that dress I'd loved in Rome...

"Mother." I sank back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "Please leave."

"Stefan..."

"Go. Tell Rose... tell her..." What? That I was sorry? That I finally saw through her perfect mask? That I'd destroyed my marriage for a fantasy she'd carefully crafted?

Mother left, her disappointment hanging in the air like expensive perfume. Like Rose's perfume. Like all the artificial, manipulated pieces of this life I'd chosen.

My phone lit up with another message. Rose again: "Darling, stop being dramatic. Come home. To me."

Home.

I looked around my office, at the shattered glass and scattered papers. At Camille's wedding photo, her genuine smile now seeming like an accusation.

What had I done?

Chapter 5

CAMILLE'S POINT OF VIEW

The parking garage of the hotel where i lodged was too quiet. My heels echoed against concrete, each click bouncing off empty cars and shadowed pillars. It was late, past midnight, but something felt wrong. Off.

My confrontation with Rose and my family had left me drained, empty except for the cold satisfaction of finally seeing behind her mask. I fumbled with my key fob, wanting nothing more than to get to my hotel room and plan my next move.

A car door slammed somewhere in the darkness.

I stopped, listening. Nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of traffic.

My phone buzzed in my purse. Rose's number. I declined it, but not before noticing my signal had dropped to one bar.

Perfect.

Footsteps behind me. Multiple sets.

I walked faster, cursing my choice of heels. The hotel's elevator was just around

the corner, past a row of concrete pillars. If I could just...

"Going somewhere, Mrs. Rodriguez?"

A man stepped out from behind a pillar. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. Professional. Two more appeared behind me, cutting off my retreat.

Not a random attack, then.

"Actually, it's Ms. Lewis now." My voice stayed steady despite my racing heart. "And I have a dinner reservation, so if you'll excuse me..."

The first man smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I'm afraid your plans have changed."

I gripped my purse tighter, feeling for the pepper spray I'd started carrying after signing the divorce papers. "Did my sister send you? Or was it Stefan?"

"Our employer prefers to remain anonymous." He stepped closer. "Now, we can do this the easy way..."

I didn't let him finish. The pepper spray caught him directly in the eyes.

He screamed, stumbling backward. I ran, kicking off my heels as I sprinted for the elevator. The other two men shouted, their footsteps thundering behind me.

Almost there. Just a few more...

Pain exploded in my scalp as someone grabbed my hair, yanking me backward. My purse went flying, contents scattering across the concrete.

"That wasn't very nice." The first man's voice was rough with pain and rage. "Hold her."

Strong hands gripped my arms. I fought, kicking, scratching, but they were too strong. Professional. Trained.

"Our employer said you might be difficult." The first man wiped his streaming eyes. "Said you needed to learn your place."

Rose. This had Rose written all over it. Her parting shot, making sure I understood just how powerless I really was.

"If you're going to kill me," I spat, "at least have the guts to look me in the eyes."

He laughed. "Kill you? No, no. Just a message. A reminder of what happens to people who don't know when to let go."

The first punch caught me in the stomach, driving the air from my lungs. I doubled over, gasping, but the men holding me kept me upright.

"See, some people don't understand their role in life." Another blow, this one to my ribs. "Some people need to be taught..."

I tasted blood. My vision blurred, pain shooting through my body. But I wouldn't cry. Wouldn't give Rose the satisfaction.

"That's enough."

The voice cut through the garage like a whip crack. Female. Authoritative.

My attackers tensed. Through swollen eyes, I saw dark figures emerging from the shadows. Men in suits, moving with military precision. And behind them...

A woman. Tall, elegant, probably in her fifties but with an ageless quality about

her. She wore a black designer suit that probably cost more than my car, her silver hair swept into a perfect chignon.

But it was her eyes that caught me. Sharp, intelligent, and oddly... familiar.

"Ma'am," one of my attackers started, "our employer..."

"Is about to have a very bad day." The woman's voice was ice. "Release her. Now."

The hands holding me disappeared. I slumped forward, pain shooting through my ribs.

"Secure them." The woman's command sent her men moving. My attackers didn't even try to run. They knew better.

She walked toward me, heels clicking on concrete. Designer shoes. Probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"Camille Lewis." Not a question. She knew exactly who I was.

I tried to straighten, to maintain some dignity despite my split lip and torn dress. "Do I know you?"

Her eyes softened, just slightly. Like she was seeing something, someone else in my face.

"No." She gestured, and more men appeared with a medical kit. "But I knew someone very much like you, once. Someone who also had to learn the hard way about trust and betrayal."

The world was getting fuzzy around the edges. Blood dripped onto my ruined dress, each breath sending knives through my ribs.

"Who..." I swayed, darkness creeping in. "Who are you?"

She stepped forward, catching me as my knees buckled. This close, I could smell

her perfume, something expensive, unique. Something that tickled at the edges of my memory.

"Someone who's been watching you for a very long time, Camille." Her voice seemed to come from far away. "Someone who's going to help you become everything they tried to prevent."

The darkness was winning now. But before it took me completely, I heard her last words:

"After all... you look just like my daughter."

Then nothing but black.