The mansion felt a lot bigger without him. Too big.
I wandered through the halls barefoot feeling the cold marble against my soles. My reflection caught in the glass walls and I'd stop to look for a moment, and instead see a ghost I didn't recognize.
The house was quiet now. Micheal had sent most of the servants home on an impromptu vacation. Once upon a time, that was what he'd do when he wanted us to be alone. The quiet was our kind of peace. He'd be sitting on the sofa, tapping relentlessly on his keyboard while I'd sit beside him reading a novel with my feet propped up on his lap. Hours would pass, quiet except for the soft turn of pages, the occasional murmur of his voice when he caught me staring.
Once, silence here had meant peace. Micheal and I had made it ours. Now that same silence was a punishment.
It had been just two days since the tape. Two days since my entire world shattered in front of me. Just two days since Micheal's eyes hollowed out when they looked at me.
And in all that time, he hadn't said one proper word to me.
Not once.
He left before dawn, returned long past midnight. Always in his sharp and precise suits, as if even his collar refused to wrinkle in my presence. I heard the distant echo of doors closing when I tried to approach, footsteps deliberately moving away from mine.
The Micheal I once knew, the boy who'd kissed me on a rain-soaked bridge when we were seventeen and promised forever, was gone.
In his place stood a stranger with his face.
I sat on the edge of our bed, gripping the sheets so hard my knuckles whitened. His scent lingered faintly on the pillows: soap, spice, the faint musk of his skin. I buried my face in it, letting sobs shake through me, the kind I refused to let anyone else see.
The world outside believed I was untouchable. Glossy magazines splashed me across covers, a woman dripping in couture, the perfect Mrs. Locke. The elegant anchor beside the city's most elusive man. The proud owner of Milla Clothing. I hadn't even checked in on business yet. I hadn't bothered to check my phone or watch the news. I knew exactly what I'd see. The media loves you when you're put together and shiny. But the moment you let even a tiny crack of imperfection slip through the cracks, they'd come after you like vultures.
And what had slipped was a whole lot more than just a tiny crack.
The door creaked open.
I jolted upright, whipping my head toward the sound.
Micheal stood in the doorway. Still in his suit, his tie loosened but not by much. This was the closest he'd been to me since that night and despite myself, I felt hope ricocheting in my chest.
"Dinner," he said flatly.
It was more of an order than an invitation.
I swallowed the huge lump in my throat. "You're…you're joining me?"
"You'll join me." Reporters have been lurking around, trying to get a glimpse of the drama and we can't give them that. We need to show a united front."
Of course it was just his damn image he was worried about.
"Downstairs. Ten minutes." And with that, he was gone again, leaving the door wide open.
I pressed my palms to my thighs, forcing myself up and starting to make my way out. My reflection in the mirror stopped me halfway across the room. My eyes were swollen from crying. My cheeks blotchy. My hair a tangled mess.
He'd hate me more if he saw me like this.
So I did what I could. Washed my face. Brushed out my hair. Put on the silk slip dress he'd once bought me on a trip to Milan. I remembered the way he'd looked at me when he gave it to me back then in London.
"Damn, Milla." He'd said gaze raking all over me like a predator. "I can't wait to take it off you."
I'd raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at my lips. "I only just put it on.
"I know. But all I can see now is how it'd look an a heap on our hotel floor."
I playfully slapped his arm and laughed till my tummy ached.
I wonder what he'll see now.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The dining room felt like a courtroom.
He was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of whiskey in hand, his phone on the table beside him. Outside the window were dozens of reporters hounding our security team, trying to get a statement from one of us.
Our team did their best to keep them away but still, cameras were propped on tripods, desperate to catch even the smallest glimpse of celebrity drama.
Bunch of fucking vultures.
Micheal didn't even look up when I entered. I slid into the chair across from him, keeping my hands tight in my lap so he wouldn't see them tremble.
The maids set down plates: steak, asparagus, roasted potatoes. I forced myself to chew, but everything tasted like cardboard. The cameras still flashed, so I forced my jaw to keep chewing.
The silence stretched for long, completely unrelenting.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. "Mikey—"
His knife scraped across the plate with a sharp clang, cutting me off.
He lifted his gaze at last, the weight of it pressing me down. His voice, when it came, was quiet. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't try to tell you the truth?"
"Don't speak to me as if I'm a child... as if I don't know what I saw." His words were low and emotionless.
I leaned forward, desperate. "Micheal, I can't keep breathing with you looking at me like this. Please. Just one chance. One. If you still hate me after, then fine, but—"
"Hate you?" He laughed a short, humorless laugh. "You think hate is the problem?"
My heart thudded. "Then what is?"
He didn't answer. He tipped back the whiskey instead, swallowing the amber burn in silence.
I whispered, "Talk to me. Please. I'll take screaming, I'll take anything, just not this."
His hand slammed the glass down hard enough the table rattled.
"You think words can fix this?!" His voice sharpened, rising for the first time. "You think I can close my eyes and not see it? Not hear it? Do you think your mouth can erase what your body did?"
Tears pricked hot behind my eyes.
"Mikey—"
"Don't call me that!" He yelled, mask cracking.
I looked out the window and saw a wave of camera flashes illuminating the dark night, reporters sensing drama.
They were like vampires that smelled blood.
Meanwhile silence buzzed between Michael and I. He wasn't eating anymore, he just sat still, looking at his plate. Then his hand stretched forward across the table and rested above mine. I knew it was just for the cameras but still my heart beat accelerated just a fraction.
"You ruined us, Camilla. And you know the worst part?" His voice came low, quiet enough for just me. "I still want you. And I hate myself for it."
For a second, his eyes softened, but not with affection. There was none of that left. But with genuine hurt. But that was just for a second. The next, it was gone, replaced by his stone mask.
He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping the marble. And said, his face facing the window. "Finish your dinner, and come meet me upstairs, honey."
And without another glance, he walked out.
The door slammed.
I sank into my chair, shaking so hard my fork slipped from my hand. I pressed my fists to my mouth to keep the scream in.
I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him the trust but I couldn't. Not yet. Not with Vincent's shadow hanging over us.
If I told him now, Micheal would go after him. He'd burn the whole city to avenge me and in the process, he'd burn too.
And I couldn't let him burn.
So I sat in silence until the walls pressed too tightly against me.
But one day.
One day he would know.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
That night, I wandered the halls like a restless ghost until I ended up in the study.
The fire had gone cold. The shelves loomed like silent witnesses to my pain.
On trembling knees, I pulled up the loose floorboard beneath the rug and reached for the journal I had hidden there. Leather bound and still looking brand new. It was a gift from Micheal one lazy Sunday morning.
"You're running out of pages," he'd said, sliding it across the bed with that same boyish grin of his. "I like the idea of being the reason you keep writing."
The memory brought a sting to my lids.
Well you're about to get your wish, Mickey.
I sat at the desk, pen shaking in my hand. For a long moment, the page blurred through my tears.
Then the words spilled anyway.
Hey Stranger,
I guess that's what you are, right? A stranger with blank pages as skin. I don't even know why I'm writing this- maybe because I've cried myself into a headache and if I don't put these thoughts somewhere, they're going to eat me alive.
So.... guess what? The world has seen me naked. In the worst way possible.
My parents have stopped calling. My sister won't answer my texts. My so called friends are suddenly allergic to my existence. And my husband won't even look at me. And that's the part that hurts the most.
Funny thing is none of them even asked why. Not one. Guess I shouldn't be surprised. People prefer headlines to truth.
And now I'm sitting here, ruined by pixels on a screen, trying to remind myself that I did what I had to do. That it wasn't for nothing. That some things are worth the burn, even if no one else ever knows.
I keep telling myself that. Over and over. But no matter what I say... or do... it doesn't stop the ache. It doesn't stop me from wanting to scream in his face that I'm not the villain here. Not totally, anyway.
Maybe someday I'll say it. Maybe someday he'll see it.
But that day is not today.
For now, I'll just keep pretending this knot in my chest is stress and not something worse. I've been feeling sick a lot lately. Dizzy, weak. Probably just the fallout of being America's favorite scandal.
Anyway, that's all I've got in me tonight. Congratulations, Stranger, you're the first to hear the truth I can't ever say out loud.
– Cam
A tear splashed onto the page, smearing the ink.
I pressed the journal to my chest and rocked myself back and forth, whispering into the empty room.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Only empty silence answered back.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure I'd survive it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The next morning, Micheal's voice jolted me awake.
"Pack your things."
I blinked against the sunlight streaming through the curtains. I had fallen asleep curled on the study couch, the journal pressed to my chest.
"A simple good morning would suffice" I said rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
He ignored me. "We're leaving. There's a gala tonight. You'll be on my arm. You'll smile. You'll laugh. And you'll convince the world we're nothing but fine."
He stood in the doorway, flawless in another tailored suit.
I opened my mouth then closed it. And simply nodded.
And with that, he walked away.
Leaving me with hope I wasn't sure I deserved.