~The Price Of Everything~

Chapter Two

The roses were blood-red against the white sheets, their perfume thick and cloying in the morning air.

I stared at them from the bathroom doorway, my reflection catching in the vanity mirror, the bruise on my cheek had darkened overnight into an ugly purple bloom. I'd covered it with foundation, layer after careful layer, until my face looked like a mask.

"The flowers are for you. I'm off to work," Julien called from the hallway, his voice bright and normal, as if last night had been erased with the rising sun. "Dinner at eight. Don't be late."

The front door clicked shut. The house exhaled into silence.

I sank onto the bed, careful not to disturb the flowers, and let myself remember. Not last night, not the slap or the cruel kiss or the way I'd surrendered my dignity with three small words. I reached further back, to the beginning, when everything had felt like magic.

Julien had been different then. Or maybe I'd been different. I was too young, too desperate, too dazzled by the attention of a man who moved through the world like he owned it. He'd noticed me at a gallery opening, some pretentious affair my uncle had dragged me to as arm candy for potential investors. I'd been standing alone, studying a painting I didn't understand, when Julien appeared at my elbow with champagne and that devastating smile.

"It's meant to represent the death of innocence," he'd said, gesturing at the canvas. "But I think the artist was just bad at painting hands."

I'd laughed and something in his expression had softened. He'd asked my name. Asked about my life and listened like I was the only person in the room, even though I was nobody. Just a poor girl in a borrowed dress, trying to look like I belonged.

The courtship had been a whirlwind. Expensive dinners, weekend getaways, gifts that made my head spin. He'd told me I was beautiful, intelligent and special. That he wanted to take care of me, protect me, give me the life I deserved. And God, I'd wanted to believe him. I Wanted to believe that love could be this easy.

I'd thought marriage would be partnership and loyalty. The two of us against the world, building something real together. I'd been so catastrophically wrong.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, shattering the memory. Mother's name flashed across the screen. She's my aunt, but I call her mom.

"Camille." Her voice was sharp and impatient. No greeting. There was never a greeting. "I need you to do something."

I closed my eyes. "What is it?"

"Next week, we're hosting the Beaumonts and the Chevaliers. Very important people. I need rare spices—saffron, cardamom, that Turkish sumac your father-in-law mentioned once. And white truffles. The real ones, not those tasteless things from the market."

"Mother, that's going to cost…"

"Talk to Julien. Get the money." She said it like it was simple, like my husband was an ATM I could access at will. "This is important, Camille. These connections could change everything for us. For your uncle's business. You owe us this much."

The words hung in the air. *You owe us.*

"I'll see what I can do," I whispered.

"Don't see. Do." The line went dead.

I sat there holding the phone, feeling the familiar weight settle over my shoulders. The weight of obligation, of debt, of never being enough. I hadn't even set it down when it rang again.

Clara. My cousin…my "sister."

"Camille!" Her voice was bright, bubbly, the voice of someone who'd never been told no in her entire life. "I need the most enormous favor."

"Clara, now's not a great time…"

"Prom is in two weeks and I found the *perfect* dress. It's Valentino, custom, absolutely stunning. But it's fifteen thousand euros and Daddy says that's too much, which is ridiculous because this is my *prom*, you know? It's literally the most important night of my life."

Fifteen thousand euros!. For one night. I thought about the flowers on my bed, probably five hundred euros' worth of apology roses.

"Clara, I can't just—"

"Oh, don't be difficult." Her tone shifted, turning petulant. "Just ask Julien. He has more money than ninety nine percent of men in Paris. What's fifteen thousand to him? It's literally nothing."

"It's not that simple. I can't just demand—"

"Camille." Now her voice went cold. The voice she'd learned from her mother. "You were a poor girl from a poor home. You had *nothing*. Uncle took you in when your parents died drowning in debt, fed you, clothed you, gave you a roof over your head. And then you got lucky—incredibly and impossibly lucky and married a billionaire. The least you can do is help your family. Or are you too good for us now?"

The words were knives, each one finding its mark. *Poor girl. Nothing. Lucky.*

"You should be grateful," Clara continued. "Most women would kill to be in your position. So stop being selfish and get me that dress. I'm not asking again."

The call ended. I stared at the phone, my hand trembling.

*Lucky.* That's what they all thought. That I'd won some cosmic lottery, trading up from poverty to penthouses, from nothing to everything. They saw the clothes, the jewelry, the black credit cards. They didn't see the price tag attached to each one.

My parents had been poor, yes. Loving, but drowning in debt they couldn't escape. When they died in a car accident, I'd inherited nothing but their creditors' phone numbers. Uncle Bernard had taken me in, but only because his business was struggling and a pretty niece could be useful at investor dinners. Aunt Marie had made sure I understood the terms: I was charity, not family.

Clara had been twelve, spoiled and cruel even then. She'd delighted in reminding me that everything I wore, everything I ate, every space I occupied in their home was borrowed.

When Julien proposed, they'd been thrilled. Finally, I could be truly useful. Finally, I could pay back what I owed,not just to Uncle Bernard, but to fate itself for daring to survive when my parents hadn't.

I'd thought marriage would free me. Instead, I'd just traded one cage for another.

But at least with Julien, I'd thought there would be love. At least I'd believed I was choosing this prison, walking into it willingly because the man holding the keys made my heart race. I fell first and hard.

Now I wasn't sure what I'd chosen. Or if I'd ever really had a choice at all.

The roses stared at me from the bed, their beauty obscene in the morning light. I picked up one stem and watched a thorn pierce my finger, blood welling bright against my skin.

*Who's a good wife?*

*I am.*

The words echoed in my head like a prayer I no longer believed in.