Micheal's POV
I didn't check my phone when I woke. I should have. Instead, I went through the daily motions- shower, suit, tie, silence. Routine was safer than news.
But the constant buzz in the hallway told me something was off. Assistants whispering, staff moving too quickly. By the time I walked into the office, Marcus was waiting with a grim face and a tablet in his hand.
"You've seen it?" he asked.
"Seen what?" I asked, confused.
He handed me the tablet.
One photograph showed on the screen. Cropped perfectly wrong the edges to hide the truth. Emily Quinn in a red gown, her manicured hand resting delicately on my arm as though she'd been born there. My face angled down, caught in the split second where I wasn't looking at the cameras but at her. Camilla was nowhere in sight.
The caption was simple, hashtagged, and poisonous:
#EndofMila
My jaw locked.
The screen buzzed with endless notifications. "New couple of the year." "Is Mila finally over?" "Men are disgusting." "They look perfect together." "Why would Micheal do this to Camilla?"
Perfect. Now I was the villain.
A slow burn started in my chest, not at the comments- they were expected- but at the carelessness. She'd posted it herself, without my consent and without any thought. She knew exactly what she was doing.
Marcus shifted awkwardly. "PR's handling it, but…"
I cut him off. "Where is she?"
"Which she?"
My glare shut him up.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I found Emily lounging in the parlor like she owned the place, phone in hand, basking in the storm she'd created.
I shut the door hard enough to make a loud BANG!
"Why?"
Her lashes fluttered. "Why what? It was just a picture."
"You know exactly what it was." My voice was ice. "I told you... privacy. Discretion. You agreed to keep this in shadows, remember? You agreed to have my name tied to yours only in private. So why the hell did you post it?!"
She set the phone aside, rising with practiced grace. "Because I don't want to be just your sneaky link, Micheal. Because I deserve to be seen. And because..." she gave a smile I'm pretty sure she thought was seductive "you didn't stop me last night, Michael. You invited me into your house... into your bed... like I belonged here."
My teeth ached from clenching. "Don't mistake tolerance for ownership."
"Please." She laughed softly. "The world thinks we look perfect together. Why fight it?"
I turned away before I did something I'd regret, hands curled into fists. She wanted the attention and I didn't have time for her games.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Camilla was already in the conference room when I arrived. The PR team circled her like vultures, papers and tablets thrust in her direction.
"Just smile through it," one of them was saying. "Don't react. Don't post anything. If you're asked about the photo, laugh it off. Pretend it doesn't matter."
Camilla sat stiff, her face holding no expression, but her hands twisted in her lap.
She was nervous. That was always her tell.
I stood at the doorway for a moment, watching her. They were telling her to be silent. To accept humiliation. To swallow it whole and smile. And I said nothing.
Because what was I supposed to say? That the mistress I'd brought into my home by myself had overstepped? That Camilla wasn't supposed to be erased?
I couldn't. Not when the memory of that video still burned into the back of my skull. Her face. Her body. The men... four of them.
No. My silence was much safer.
"We're scheduling a press release." Our head if PR- Adrian- begun, "We need to take the reigns on this. If there's going to be a story, we need to be the ones writing it."
Marcus came in, "Exactly. If there's going to be another woman, the only way we can spin it so the public doesn't turn against us is to have complete control of the story."
He turned to Camilla and continued, "We need his wife to be by his side in support of this or else the public will chew him up and spit him right out. We're going to need you to smile and say you've always been fascinated by the idea of a throuple." Camilla's face held no emotion whatsoever. She just listened quietly as he went on and on about public appearances and images like anyone was even paying attention.
Finally, she looked up at me, eyes searching for the man who always stepped up to protect her in times like this.
As much as I hated to admit it, tiny piece of me wanted to... but I slammed it down with everything in me.
And walked away.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The press release was brutal. Reporters had hoarded us with so many questions my head began to swim. Camilla, on the other hand, had handled it exceptionally well. She'd somehow had an answer to every question and a bright smile to every show of concern.
The drive home was worse.
Silence stretched thick between us, broken only by the occasional honk of traffic. She stared out the window, shoulders pulled tight. I gripped the wheel harder than necessary.
My phone kept buzzing with notifications. Her face was on every headline- cut out, cropped, dismissed. Emily plastered beside me like a trophy.
And Camilla... Camilla was invisible.
She shifted slightly, and I caught it in the corner of my eye. A small shiver but unmistakable.
She hadn't brought a coat. Of course she hadn't. She'd been too busy holding herself together under all those cameras.
I should've ignored it. I told myself to ignore it. But my hand betrayed me, reaching to adjust the controls. The heater clicked on, warm air filling the space slowly.
Her shoulders eased just a little as she turned to look at me but I refused to meet her gaze.
I didn't say a word and neither did she. But the car felt less like a coffin, if only for a moment.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By nightfall, the house was silent. Staff dismissed, lights dimmed. I poured myself a drink I didn't want, stared at the amber liquid like it might answer the questions I never asked out loud.
Why had she agreed to all of this? She could've used the opportunity to destroy me- tell the press I invited another woman into my bed right under our very own roof. But instead, she went along with it even though I could see it in her eyes that she was dying. Ever the devoted wife... except when it mattered.
And I hated her for it.
I hated her for the humiliation.
I hated her for the betrayal.
And still, God help me, I hated myself even more for the part of me that remembered paper crowns and whispered promises in a dusty schoolyard.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was past midnight when I heard it.
Muffled coughing from down the hall.
I stood before I thought, moving toward the bathroom door. The cough came again, wet and ragged, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.
My hand lifted automatically. The old rhythm- three soft knocks a pause, and then another knock- the signal we'd invented as children, so we'd always know it was each other.
I froze with my hand over the door.
No. Those days were gone.
I clenched my teeth and twisted the handle instead. The door creaked open.
Camilla was bent over the toilet, her body trembling. She gasped between coughs, clutching the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"Milla..."
She jolted at my voice, spinning too quickly. Her hair clung to her face, her lips pale. She scrambled to flush, her hand slamming down on the handle.
But not before I saw it. The water swirling crimson, washing down in violent circles.
Blood.
My chest tightened, breath catching as I stood in the doorway. For one frozen moment, the hate, the anger, the betrayal... all of it cracked beneath something colder.
Complete and utter fear.