005: My Leftovers

Camille's POV

The Argent Ballroom smelled like money and orchids.

Crystal chandeliers threw gold light over three hundred careful smiles, and a string quartet worked through

something that sounded expensive even if you didn't know the composer.

I walked in wearing a gown the color of dried blood, my handbag alone worth more than most people's cars, and not a single head turned twice.

That was the whole point of five years.

Nobody looks past a woman who looks like she belongs.

A silver-haired man in a tuxedo raised his glass toward Kyrian before I'd even found the bar. "To Voss Industry, back from the dead. You've landed the deal of the decade, Kyrian. Siyah Entertainment doesn't partner with just anyone."

"We're finalizing the details," Kyrian said, that easy smile sliding into place, the one that used to make me feel chosen and now just looked rehearsed.

"But yes. It's shaping up to be a very good year."

"A very good year," Olivia echoed, tightening her grip on his arm like she was afraid the room might steal him.

"He's worked so hard for this. Haven't you, baby?"

"Harder than anyone will ever know," Kyrian said, and the group around them laughed like he'd said something clever instead of something empty.

I smirked into my glass at the bar. They were celebrating a contract that hadn't been signed yet.

Some things never change — Kyrian always did love spending money he hadn't earned.

"You must be so proud," a woman in emerald said to Olivia, touching her wrist. "The most eligible man in this city, and he only has eyes for you."

"He'd better," Olivia laughed, bright and performative, "or I'll make his life very difficult."

I watched Kyrian's hand find the small of her back, easy, practiced, the gesture of a man who'd never once had to work for a woman's attention.

Five years ago that would have made my chest ache. Tonight it just made me thirsty.

It didn't take him long to notice me.

His gaze drifted across the room mid-sentence, caught, and stayed.

Whatever the man beside him was saying trailed off into nothing Kyrian was still listening to.

He kissed Olivia's temple, distracted, already turning before his mouth left her skin, and crossed the floor like he'd never once in his life been told no.

"Mind if I buy you a drink?"

I let the silence stretch just long enough to be rude.

"Not interested. I thought the drinks were free tonight. Seems like a waste of money on a stranger."

He stepped closer instead of retreating, close enough that I caught the same cologne he'd worn on our anniversary five years ago — the one I used to love, the one that now just smelled like a headache waiting to happen.

His hand came up and tilted my jaw toward him, easy, presumptuous, like my face was something he was entitled to redirect.

"No woman refuses me," he murmured, breath warm against my ear. "Do you know who I am?"

"I know exactly who you are." I kept my voice flat, almost bored, and watched confusion bloom behind his eyes at the wrongness of my tone —

not flattered, not flustered, just certain.

"Then you'll know it's not every day a man like me crosses a room for someone." He said it like a gift, like I should already be thanking him.

"Careful." I took a slow sip of wine. "You're crossing that room while your wife is still mid-sentence with a room full of witnesses. You're not as invisible as you think."

Something flickered behind his eyes — not recognition, just the faint prickle of a man realizing the ground under him wasn't as solid as he'd assumed.

He straightened, recalibrating, opening his mouth to say something else.

That's when I saw her. Olivia, cutting through the crowd toward us, her face already tightening with

suspicion at the distance between her husband and another woman.

I didn't think. I acted.

Olivia was coming up fast behind him, and from where she stood, the angle was everything. My

hand shot out and closed around Kyrian's collar, fisting the silk, and I pulled him down toward me — close, our faces a breath apart, my mouth

grazing just past the corner of his — timed to land at the exact second Olivia's eyes found us over his shoulder.

From where she was standing, it would look like nothing else.

From where I was standing, my lips never touched his at all.

He froze, too startled to react fast enough to matter, his hands coming up uselessly between us like a man caught in a photograph he'd never agreed to pose for.

Olivia's heels struck marble like small gunshots the rest of the way across the floor.

She grabbed his arm and wrenched him back from me, her voice gone sharp as broken glass.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"It's not what you think, babe—" Kyrian stammered, stepping back from me, still visibly rattled by how close it had looked, how close it had felt, even though nothing had actually happened.

"I saw you. Kissing this—" her eyes raked over me, dismissive, "—this nobody, and you're telling me it's nothing?" Her voice climbed, drawing the

attention of every guest within twenty feet, the particular electric hush of a crowd realizing it's about to witness something worth remembering.

"Oh, so you have a wife at home, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is, and you're already trying to get some stranger into your bed. What a shame."

A woman near the bar leaned toward her companion, not bothering to lower her voice. "Isn't that Kyrian Voss's wife? Making a scene already?"

Someone laughed, low and delighted, the way people do when gossip falls straight into their laps. Olivia heard it. I watched the color climb up her throat.

"You should be more careful," I said, "arguing with him in a room this full."

"Excuse me? Who even are you?"

"Someone who's watched this exact scene play out before," I said, letting my voice go soft, almost pitying. "You'd be surprised how familiar it looks from the outside. A man's hands finding someone else. A woman convincing herself it's nothing." I let the silence stretch.

“You didn't just steal him Liv, sweetheart. Someone threw him away—and you were proudly desperate enough to pick him up.”

Her face twisted — not recognition, not quite, just a bone-deep unease she couldn't name, the sense of standing near something dangerous without knowing its shape.

"I don't know you," she said, but her voice had thinned.

"You're right," I said. "You don't. But I do know exactly what kind of woman you are"

She lunged before the sentence finished settling, her palm arcing toward my face with a fury that had clearly been sitting under her skin far longer than tonight.

I was faster.

My hand met her cheek first, a crack loud enough to cut through the string quartet, her head snapping sideways under the force of it.

She recovered in half a breath, swung again — wild this time, sloppy — and I caught that one too, my palm finding her other cheek with the same clean precision, sharp and final, the sound of it ringing out across a room gone completely, deliciously silent.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Then, one by one, phones rose into the air, camera flashes flickering like small lightning strikes.

"Oh my God," someone whispered behind a raised phone. "Did you get that? Tell me you got that."

I leaned in close, close enough that only Olivia could hear it. "Learn to control your useless animal of a husband. Not every woman in this room is interested in the bastard you're so madly in love with."

I turned and walked away without another word, my heels striking marble in the same unhurried rhythm I'd practiced until nothing could knock me off it.

Behind me, Olivia's voice cracked apart into something between a sob and a scream, Kyrian's low, useless attempts to calm her doing nothing at all, and the unmistakable murmur of three

hundred guests already typing captions for what they'd just filmed.

By morning, it would be everywhere. A viral clip of a stunning stranger slapping Kyrian Voss's wife

twice in a crowded ballroom, no name attached to either woman, just enough mystery to make people hungry for more.

Someone would clip it into ten-second loops within the hour.

By tomorrow afternoon it wouldn't matter what actually happened — the internet would have already decided what to call her, and it wouldn't be kind.

Olivia had spent years building a reputation on being adored, envied, admired from a careful distance. Tonight I'd handed the entire world a different story to tell about her instead.

I picked up a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray and let myself finally exhale.

This was only the beginning of a very long night. Before it ended, both of them were going to understand exactly what it cost to leave a woman for dead and call it a happy ending.

Somewhere in the depths of hell, I imagined, even the devil himself would flinch at what I had set in motion tonight — and there wouldn't be nothing left he could do to save either of them from what was coming.