The ride home from the hospital blurred into one long stretch of silence. Corinne's car smelled faintly of coffee and her perfume, but all I could smell was antiseptic, all I could hear was the doctor's voice.
"Stage II. We'll need more scans, but the tests are clear. Lymph nodes involved."
The words didn't belong to me. They belonged to some stranger lying in a hospital bed while the world cracked apart at the edges. Not to Camilla Locke, wife, hostess, the smiling woman in pearls who always had flowers in the foyer. No, that Camilla didn't get sick. That Camilla didn't collapse on marble floors while the cameras flashed.
My fingers curled tighter in my lap. The hospital bracelet still clung to my wrist, a garish reminder.
Corinne glanced at me from the driver's seat, but I couldn't meet her eyes. I didn't want to see pity I was sure would show in her eyes.
She'd been crying since we left the hospital. Meanwhile, I couldn't feel anything at all.
Outside, the city passed in streaks of light and shadow. My mind kept circling the same fragments- cancer, cancer, cancer- like a child tugging at a loose thread.
When we finally pulled into the Locke driveway, the house loomed large and cold, its windows gleaming like watchful eyes. This was supposed to be my sanctuary. Tonight it looked like a stage, and I was stepping into someone else's play.
"Cam?" Corinne's voice was a little too gentle.
I forced a breath. "I'm fine."
She didn't argue. She never argued when I used that tone. But her jaw was tight as she helped me out of the car and up the steps.
Inside, the house was immaculate as always, our housekeeper had clearly been through, but it felt foreign. Every polished surface, every perfect detail seemed to mock me. How many years had I spent arranging flowers, adjusting curtains, setting a stage for a marriage that was slowly unraveling?
I sank onto the sofa, my body heavier than it had ever felt.
The doctor's voice returned, crisp and clinical.
"It's treatable. We'll discuss options. Chemotherapy, possibly surgery."
Options. Like a menu. Like choosing between soufflé or crème brûlée.
Corinne sat beside me. "Do you want tea? Water?"
"No." My voice cracked on the word.
Before she could push further, the sound of the front door opening sliced through the quiet. Keys clattered onto the counter.
Michael.
I straightened instinctively, my pulse racing. For a ridiculous second, I thought maybe he'd rush over, gather me into his arms, ask how I was. The way he once did when I scraped my knee in college and he carried me three blocks to the infirmary like it was life or death.
Instead, he walked into the living room, tailored suit still crisp, tie loosened just enough to look careless. His eyes landed on me- not the least bit worried. Just… cold.
"You're home," he said flatly, as if he'd found me sneaking in past curfew.
"Yes."
His gaze flicked to Corinne, then back to me. "Do you realize what kind of spectacle you caused?"
I blinked. "Spectacle?"
"At the gala," he snapped. "Collapsing in front of everyone. The press will eat this alive. My board is already calling. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me?"
Humiliating. For him.
My chest tightened. "I didn't choose to faint, Michael."
"You didn't try not to, either." He shot back. "You've always had a flare for the dramatic. But this was a new low... even for you."
The sting of it was sharp, sharper than the IV needle that pierced my skin earlier that day. For years he'd called me radiant, his steady star. Now, I was suddenly a liability.
Corinne stood abruptly. "You have got to be kidding me."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"She fainted, Michael. Because something's wrong. Not because she wanted attention. But sure, go ahead, make it about your reputation. God forbid anyone think less of your empire for five minutes."
I saw where this was headed. Panic surged.
"Corinne... " I said quickly, shaking my head.
She turned on me, furious. "No, Cam. He deserves to know-"
"Not now." My voice was sharper than I intended. The hospital bracelet bit into my skin as I folded my arms tight across my chest.
Corinne's anger still boiled at the surface but instead of saying any more, she sank back down, but fixed her her glare at Michael.
Michael scoffed. "I don't need your theatrics, Corinne. You've always coddled her. That's half the problem."
I could tell Corinne had a lot more to say to that but one look at me and she could tell I wasn't having it.
I turned my eyes back on my husband and felt my body shrinking under his gaze. The shame of the diagnosis, the shame of being seen as weak, tangled with his words until I could barely breathe.
Stage II. Options. Chemotherapy.
I pressed my nails into my palms, trying to anchor myself.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Then...
A knock sounded.
We all turned toward the sound.
Michael's brow furrowed. "Who the hell is at our door this late?"
The knock came again, lighter, followed by a woman's voice. Sweet and self assured.
"Michael? It's me."
Corinne's head snapped toward me. Her eyebrows shot up in question.
Who the hell is me?
Michael froze. For one very brief moment, panic flickered across his face. Then it vanished, replaced by something steadier. He straightened his shoulders and strode to the door.
I was absolutely confused. I glanced to the clock hanging above the fireplace. 10:47PM.
Why would Michael open the door for someone this late?
The door opened.
She stepped inside like she owned the place. Dark waves of hair spilling over her shoulders, a dress that looked like it was made for seduction, lips painted crimson. She smelled of expensive perfume and entitlement.
"Darling," she purred. And before my brain could process it, she slid her arm around Michael's neck and kissed him.
Right there. In my living room.
Right in front of me.
The papers in my lap slipped from my fingers falling to a tangled heap on the ground near my feet.
Time stopped.
Corinne let out a strangled sound. "What the hell..."
But I didn't hear her... not really anyway. I was too busy trying to pinch myself awake.
This had to be some sort of cruel nightmare, obviously.
But Michael didn't pull away. Instead, he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her body to his, and kissed her back.
And in that moment, something inside me cracked so violently I swore the sound echoed in the room.