Gulp

Camilla's POV

The gates swing open slowly. My fingers tighten on the handle of my overnight bag as the car rolls up the driveway. Nothing looks different, same towering grey pillars, same wrought-iron balcony railing, same trimmed hedges and white gravel path. And yet, everything feels… wrong. Or maybe it’s just me who’s wrong now. I left this house as a girl chasing a man who didn’t love her back. I’m walking in now as a woman who learned the truth the hard way.

The car pulls to a stop. For a second, I hesitate, my hands shaking in my lap. Then I open the door.

The warm, earthy scent of home hits me as I step out. It almost buckles my knees. Childhood memories rush forward, morning sunrises in the garden, bandaging doll wounds in the corner of Dad’s study, sneaking cake before dinner when no one was watching. Only someone was always watching.

My father appears at the top of the stairs.

His face is older. Tired, more lined. But his eyes those warm, wise eyes are the same. He walks down the steps, slowly, and then suddenly, he’s moving faster, closing the gap between us.

“Camila…” he breathes.

I drop my bag and step into his arms. For the first time in a long time, I feel held. Safe. Like I belong somewhere again. My father wraps me tight and rests his chin on my hair.

“You’re home,” he murmurs. “You’re finally home.”

My chest trembles as I hold back tears. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No apologies. Never again.”

I close my eyes and breathe him in, aftershave, paper, coffee. His scent. My childhood. My only constant.

The moment is shattered by a familiar voice laced with venom.

“Well, well. The prodigal daughter returns.”

I stiffen instantly. The warmth in my chest turns ice cold. I pull away from Dad and look up at the top of the stairs.

Theresa. My stepmother. Still dressed in expensive silk and gold, her makeup too perfect for this early hour. Her eyes are sharp, unkind, her lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach them. She leans against the railing like she owns this house.

Because for years, she acted like she did. “Don’t start, Theresa,” Dad says without looking at her.

She scoffs. “Just stating facts. You can dress her in new clothes and tuck her into guest rooms, but it won’t change where she came from.”

“Don’t you dare call her a prodigal again.”

Theresa’s smirk fades slightly. “If she wasn’t born from another man’s seed, then tell me, why did you have to marry her mother while she was already pregnant?”

Dad’s body tenses beside mine. I look up at him. His jaw is clenched.

And I know it’s time to say it out loud, what I’ve always known but never really faced.

I was born out of wedlock. My mother was pregnant with me when she married the man I now call father. No one knows who my real father is. Maybe not even she did. But she died giving birth to me, and my father—this man who raised me, who loved me like his own never questioned whether I was his.

He raised me when he didn’t have to. He shielded me from everything. Until Theresa.

According to my father, Theresa had been nothing but a maid when my mother was alive. A servant who cleaned our home and simmered resentment quietly in the background. After my mother’s death, she took advantage of my father in his grief, got him drunk, seduced him. She got pregnant with twins, and before I turned a few weeks old, she was already in his house wearing his ring.

Alina and Matias.

Only a few weeks younger than me, but that never stopped Theresa from treating me like an outsider. Like I was the stain on this family.

I lift my chin. “You’ve always hated me for things I had no control over. I didn’t ask to be born. And I sure as hell didn’t ask to be raised under the same roof as a woman like you.”

Her smile falters. “Careful, girl. You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

“I know exactly who I’m talking to. A maid who conned her way into a marriage and spent the next twenty years trying to erase the woman who came before her.”

Dad’s voice is low but sharp. “That’s enough. From both of you.”

Theresa narrows her eyes at me, then turns and stalks off, her heels clicking angrily down the corridor.

I exhale slowly, trying to get my pulse back under control.

Dad rubs a hand down his face. “I should’ve sent her packing years ago.”

“But you didn’t,” I say quietly. “Because she gave you Matias.”

The silence between us thickens. My eyes drift toward the long corridor leading to the wing where Matias used to live. Where we used to pass each other in the halls, never speaking much. Just watching. Measuring. Existing beside each other like magnets forced to face the same pole.

“Is he… here?” I ask.

Dad hesitates. “He’s supposed to be.”

As if summoned by the very question, the front door opens behind us.

The wind picks up slightly, brushing past the curtains.

I turn. Matias steps out through the door, time stops. He's taller than I remember. Broader. Colder.

His presence fills the foyer in seconds, like a shadow that stretches into every corner. He wears black from head to toe. Tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, suit pants, no tie. His hair is darker now, a little longer. His jaw is sharp, his mouth expressionless, and his eyes… God, those eyes.

Fuck! I didn't want to recall past memories, didn't want to remember how I used to be stepsister who fantasized about her dangerous stepbrother. But right now, he was insanely hot- more than hot.

His eyes meet mine and don’t blink. I forget how to breathe. For a long moment, no one says anything.

Then his gaze flicks to my father. “You said she'd be here towards day.”

Dad shrugs. “Well, she came earlier.”

Matias’ eyes return to mine and I straighten. His voice is low, deep, like under pressure. “So, you’re back.”

I nod, my voice stuck somewhere in my throat.

He walks toward me gently, each step echoes.

He stops just a few feet away. Close enough to feel the chill of his presence. His gaze drags down my body, sharper. Like he’s cataloging what’s changed. Measuring the damage.

“You look…” He pauses, then says with no emotion, “...tired.”

A muscle in my jaw twitches. “You would too, if you’d lost everything in a month.”

Something pass in his eyes but it was gone before I can name it.

“I heard what happened,” he says.

“Which part?” I ask. “The part where my husband betrayed me? Or the part where I almost died?”

His voice is flat. “Both.”

I cross my arms. “And which part brought you back? Morbid curiosity?”

His lips twitch slightly with something darker. “You’ll find I’m not as curious as I used to be. I came back because I have unfinished business.”

“With Dad?”

His gaze hardens. “With you.”

My stomach drops and he turns to my father.“We’ll talk later.”

Then he walks past me, the scent of his cologne brushing over my skin, leaving a trail of heat behind. He heads down the hall toward the west wing, the one he always claimed for himself, farthest from everyone else.

He doesn’t look back. But I swear, the air he leaves behind hums like it’s just been electrified.

Dad sighs beside me. “He’s… intense. Always has been.”

“He’s something,” I murmur.

And I know it already, Matias isn’t just back to visit. He’s come back for me.

And whatever unfinished business we have? It’s about to ignite everything I thought I buried.