Camilla
The office hummed with that familiar rhythm of keyboards clacking and phones buzzing, but today it felt off-kilter, like everyone was holding their breath just a little too long.
I stepped through the glass doors of CROWN CLOTHING's headquarters, my heels echoing sharper than usual against the marble floor. It had been weeks since I'd shown my face here, weeks of hiding behind emails and conference calls while the world dissected my life like it was some trashy reality show.
But I couldn't hide forever. Not if I wanted to keep this company afloat, and not if I wanted to remind myself that I was more than just Michael Locke's disgraced wife.
Heads turned as I walked past the reception desk. Whispers followed, not quite hushed enough to pretend they weren't about me. Side glances from the interns, a quick avert of eyes from the design team huddled over sketches.
I could feel the weight of it all, the unspoken questions hanging in the air: Is she really back? After that tape? How does she even show her face?
My stomach twisted, but I kept my chin up, forcing a smile that I hoped looked more confident than it felt. Vulnerability wasn't an option here. Not in my domain.
I made it to the open-plan workspace, where rows of desks buzzed with activity. Or at least, they had been buzzing until I arrived. Now, the energy shifted to awkward pauses and furtive looks.
Fine. If they wanted to gawk, I'd give them something to talk about that wasn't pity or gossip.
I spotted a sturdy chair by the central collaboration table, kicked off my heels, and climbed onto it, balancing carefully as the room fell into a stunned silence.
"Alright, everyone," I called out, my voice carrying across the space with the kind of authority I'd honed over years of boardroom battles. "I know you've all seen the headlines. Hell, you've probably watched the damn video more times than I'd like to imagine. So let's address the elephant in the room before it tramples our productivity."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the crowd. Good. At least they weren't pretending. "I'm not here to give excuses or sob stories," I continued, scanning the faces—some wide-eyed, others trying to hide smirks. "What I will say is this: scandals come and go, but fashion? Fashion endures. And so do we. If you're spending your time whispering about my personal life instead of nailing down the spring line, then maybe you're in the wrong business. Because last I checked, our job is to make women feel powerful, not to judge them when life throws a curveball. So, questions? Comments? Or can we get back to work?"
For a beat, no one spoke. Then, from the back, one of the junior designers... Lena, I think her name was, raised her hand tentatively. "Mrs. Locke... Camilla... does this mean you're okay? I mean, really?"
I met her gaze, letting a touch of sarcasm slip into my smile. "Okay enough to fire anyone who asks me that again today. But seriously, thank you for the concern. Now, let's channel that energy into something useful, like figuring out why our hemlines are trending downward while sales aren't."
That got a real laugh, and the tension broke like a wave. People started drifting back to their desks, conversations picking up with a renewed buzz.
I stepped down from the chair, slipping my heels back on, and headed to my office, ignoring the slight dizziness that tugged at the edges of my vision.
Not now, I thought. You've got this. One foot in front of the other.
My secretary, Tara, was waiting inside, a stack of folders in her arms and a coffee mug steaming on my desk. She gave me a once-over, her expression a mix of relief and worry. "Welcome back, boss. The place hasn't burned down without you, but it was close."
I sank into my chair, grabbing the coffee like a lifeline. "Thanks, Tara. What's on the agenda? And please tell me it's not another crisis meeting about supply chain delays."
She flipped open her tablet, scrolling through the schedule. "Actually, first up is the marketing team debrief on the fall campaign. They're pushing for more influencer collabs, but I flagged a few red flags... budget overruns and some iffy partnerships."
I nodded, already mentally shifting gears. "Bring them in. Let's hash it out."
The door opened a few minutes later, and the marketing team filed in. Four of them led by Raj, our head of digital strategy. They settled around the conference table, laptops open, projecting slides onto the wall.
"So," Raj started, clicking to the first slide, a graph showing engagement metrics. "The fall line's teaser posts are performing well, but we're seeing a dip in organic reach. Influencers are key here. We've got proposals from three big names: Mia Voss for the urban chic vibe, Theo Grant for menswear crossover, and Lila Hayes for sustainable fabrics."
I leaned forward, scanning the numbers. "Mia's solid, but her audience skews too young for our core demo. Theo's got the edge. His last collab boosted conversions by twenty percent. Lila, though... her eco-cred is impeccable, but her rates are highway robbery. What if we negotiate a bundle deal, throw in exclusive previews?"
Raj nodded, typing notes. "We could, but Lila's team is firm on the fee. Maybe counter with product equity?"
Tara chimed in. "Or leverage our social proof. After... well, recent events, our brand's visibility is through the roof. Use that buzz to sweeten the pot."
I shot her a wry look. "Ah yes, nothing like a sex scandal to boost brand awareness. Fine, let's draft the counteroffer. Raj, loop in legal for the equity clause. And while we're at it, pivot the campaign narrative... empowerment through reinvention. Tie it to the new fabrics, make it about shedding the old and embracing strength."
The discussion flowed from there, ideas bouncing back and forth. "What about micro-influencers?" one team member suggested. "Lower cost, higher authenticity."
"Viable," I replied, "but we need data. Pull stats on engagement rates versus follower count. "By the time we wrapped up, the room felt alive again, focused on creation instead of destruction. As they filed out, Raj lingered. "Camilla, just... glad you're back. We missed your fire."
I managed a genuine smile. "Missed being here. Now go conquer those influencers before I change my mind about Lila's fee."
The rest of the morning blurred into calls and emails, the familiar grind a welcome distraction. But as lunch approached, a nagging thought crept in- the events of last night. Michael's face in the bathroom doorway, the brief flash of something real in his eyes.
I pushed it down, focusing on the sketch in front of me.
Later, I told myself. Deal with it later.
For now, work was my armor, and I wasn't ready to let it crack.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By late afternoon though, the fatigue hit hard.
My body ached in ways that no amount of coffee could fix, and the doctor's words echoed in my head: more tests, more monitoring.
I grabbed my bag and told Tara I was stepping out for a "quick errand." She didn't buy it, but she didn't push either.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The hospital lobby was a sterile blur of fluorescent lights and hurried footsteps. I checked in at the oncology desk, my heart pounding a little too fast. The nurse at reception gave me a sympathetic smile. "Dr. Harper's running a bit behind, but Elias can take your vitals in the meantime."
Elias. Of course.
I followed the hallway to the exam room, where he was already waiting, clipboard in hand and that easy grin on his face.
"Well, if it isn't the queen of dramatic exits," he said, motioning me to sit on the exam table. "Back so soon? Miss my charming company already?"
I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips despite myself. "Please. I come for the stale magazines in the waiting room. You're just a bonus annoyance."
He chuckled, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm. "Ouch. And here I thought we were building a beautiful friendship. Pump, please."
I flexed my fist as instructed, watching the numbers climb on the monitor. He frowned slightly at the reading, but covered it with another quip. "A little high. Been wrestling any more wild boars lately?"
"Only the worst kind," I said back. "You know... board meetings, nosy reporters... the usual."
He nodded, jotting down notes. "Fair enough. But seriously, Camilla... you look like you haven't slept in days. Tough act only gets you so far before it cracks."
I deflected with a shrug. "Sleep's overrated. Besides, if I crack, who's going to keep you entertained with my sparkling wit?"
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Touché. But if you need to vent, I'm a pretty good listener. No judgment, just bad jokes and decent advice."
For a moment, I considered telling him everything... about Michael, the tape, the blood last night.... But vulnerability like that felt too raw.
I opted for sarcasm instead. "Advice from a guy who thinks scrubs are high fashion? I'll pass, thanks."
Elias laughed, a warm sound that eased the knot in my chest just a fraction. "Hey, these scrubs are designer- hospital chic. But fine, keep your secrets. Just know the offer stands whenever you're ready."
We bantered back and forth while he finished the vitals... him teasing about my "mysterious aura," me firing back about his "overly optimistic bedside manner." It was light, easy, a stark contrast to the heaviness at home.
By the time Dr. Harper arrived, I felt a spark of comfort I hadn't realized I needed. Elias gave me a wink as he left. "Stay tough, queen. But not too tough."
The appointment dragged on with more blood draws and discussions about treatment options. "We're monitoring closely," Dr. Harper said. "But if the symptoms worsen.. any dizziness, coughing... call immediately."
I nodded, promising I would, even as my mind gnawed at me.
"Doctor," I asked, "all our appointments are bound by doctor patient confidentiality, right?"
"Yes of course" he replied
"So that means you can't reveal my um... condition to anyone else right? Not even a spouse?"
He paused for a bit, looking me in the eye.
"No." He said finally, "I can't reveal your diagnosis to anyone. But I'd really suggest–"
"Thank you, doctor"
He looked at me for a moment longer and turned to leave.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By the time I got home, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the mansion.
The place felt empty, echoing my footsteps as I headed upstairs to the study. Michael's car wasn't in the driveway yet. Probably another late night at the office, or worse, with Emily.
The name alone twisted something sharp in my gut.
I pulled the journal from its hiding spot under the floorboard, the leather cool against my fingers.
Hey Stranger,
It's me again, your resident scandal queen.
Where do I even start? The past few days have been a whirlwind of pretending everything's fine when it's anything but. Let's talk about Emily first—that smug, crimson-lipped intruder who waltzed into my home like she owned it. Watching her kiss Michael right in front of me felt like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed until I couldn't breathe. And then dinner... God, dinner was torture. Her hand on his arm, her laughter at his jokes, her whispered taunts when she thought no one else could hear. "Took him long enough to level up." I wanted to slap that smile off her face, but I held back. Barely.
Michael's cruelty stings the most, though. The way he looks at me now... like I'm a stranger or worse, an enemy. But even in all that, I catch glimpses of the boy I fell in love with. The knight who climbed fences and made paper crowns. He's still in there, buried under layers of hurt and pride. I have to believe that, or what's even the point?
There are still parts of him that care though. He tries to squash it out but I know it's there. The night we were coming home from that press conference and he saw me shiver a little and reached over to turn down the car AC even though I know how much he loves the cold.
He cares, Stranger. He does.
Which brings me to last night. I was in the bathroom, coughing up blood and then the door opened, and there he was. Michael, standing in the doorway, his face paling like he'd seen a ghost. "Milla," he said, and for a second, his voice cracked with real fear. He crouched down, asked what was happening, like he actually cared. I snapped at him, told him it was none of his business after everything he's done. But deep inside, I was screaming for him to stay, to hold me, to be the man who promised forever.
He didn't push, though. Just stood there watching me flush it away. And then he left, the door clicking shut behind him. I sat on the floor for what felt like hours, shaking, wondering if that flicker of concern was real or just a trick of the light. Does he suspect something's wrong? Part of me hopes he does... it might force him to see me again. But another part dreads it, because if he knew about the cancer, about the deal I made with Vincent to save him... would he even believe me? Or would he think it's another lie?I don't know, Stranger. All I know is I'm tired. Tired of the silence, the secrets, the pain. But I'll keep going. For him. For us. Whatever's left.
– Cam
I closed the journal, my hand trembling as I slid it back into hiding. The words had poured out, a cathartic release, but they left me drained. Thirst clawed at my throat, so I headed downstairs to the kitchen, barefoot on the cool tiles. The house was dark, save for a light spilling from Michael's study. Voices drifted out—his, low and tense, on the phone.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, curiosity pulling me closer. I shouldn't eavesdrop, but after everything, caution felt like a luxury I couldn't quite afford.
"...yes, Calder, I've reviewed the proposal," Michael was saying, his tone clipped. "But I'm not signing anything until I see the full terms. Your leverage isn't as strong as you think."
Calder. Vincent Calder. My blood ran cold. He was still circling, still trying to sink his claws into Michael's empire. The deal I'd made, the night that ruined everything, had been to protect Michael from him, and now here he was, negotiating like nothing had changed.
I leaned against the wall, heart racing. He's not done, I thought, panic rising. And if Michael takes the bait...
The conversation continued, Michael's voice hardening. "Fine. Meet tomorrow. But don't waste my time."
The call ended with a click, and I slipped back upstairs before he could catch me. In bed, staring at the ceiling, the realization settled like a stone in my chest. Vincent wasn't finished. And neither was this nightmare.