Chapter 12: Gasoline and Ghosts

Lucien Pov

“Fuck.” The door slams shut behind me.

I’m not even sure what pushed me to snap at Sophia.

Was it because she offered sex just to get me to tutor her?

She’s so desperate to live with her grandmother, she’s ready to trade herself for it.

I should’ve been grateful. Thrilled, even. She offered herself to quiet the urge I keep burying. Letting her touch me would’ve silenced the curiosity clawing at my gut.

Ever since Camilla died, I haven’t had good sex. Not the kind that leaves you breathless and bruised, aching and satisfied.

But with her... I wanted to test how far she’d fall.

That’s what sickened me. Not her—me.

Classes are cancelled. I could go home, pretend this day never broke me.

But I don’t.

Instead, I grab my coat and keys. Muscle memory. Nothing more. My hands are steady. My chest is not. Like something old and sharp is stuck there.

Maybe today I stop pretending she’s still out there.

Maybe I’ll finally do what I’ve been avoiding for three fucking years.

The drive is silent. Every turn presses down, like gravity's stronger near her grave.

But I don’t.

I pull into the cemetery road. Gravel crunches under the tires. My throat clenches.

Dread hits like ice down my spine. The pain is old but raw. A wound I never let scab over.

Because how do you move on from something like that?

I step out of the car. The air feels wrong here. Still. Almost suffocating.

My legs move. My heart stays behind.

And then I see it.

The headstone.

Camilla’s name. Carved in granite. As if that could hold all of her.

My jaw tightens. My hands clench at my sides.

I haven’t been here since the funeral. I couldn’t. Not once.

Because coming here means accepting that she’s gone.

And I’m not ready to do that.

I don’t think I’ll ever be.

Every memory bounce back, the ones I have fought so hard to keep buried.

I stand there, staring at her name carved in stone, but all I can see is her smile—brighter than the sun, louder than her laugh, softer than the way she used to trace my jaw with her fingertips when I couldn’t sleep.

We had a date. A dress. Vows written. A life ready.

June 12.

She wanted lilac flowers. I had written my vows two months early because I was so damn sure of her. Of us. We had plans—four years of dreams and sacrifices.

Gone.

All of it, fucking gone.

Because some bastard in a truck didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back.. Never got caught. Three years and they still call it a cold case.

The world moved on. I couldn't.

I took her damn job at the university after they offered it to me. They said it would be "healing." What a joke.

Every morning I walk those halls, every lecture I give—it’s not for the students. It’s punishment. I sit in her office. I breathe her air. I live in the life she was supposed to have. I do it to remember. Not to heal—because healing means forgetting.

I run my hand through my hair and crouch by the grave, fingers digging into the earth like I’m trying to touch her one last time.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “If I hadn’t called, you’d still be here. My Camille... I’m sorry.”

My voice cracks. I bite down to hold it together.

The wind brushes past—gentle, almost like her. But it brings no comfort.

"Do you hate me now, Camilla?" I whisper. "You never got to see Egypt."

The words hang in the cold air like a curse.

You dreamed of golden sands. Of pyramids and sunsets and stories you'd tell your students.

I don’t know how long I sit there. The sun dips low, and the cold begins to creep in.

I deserve the cold.

I deserve the silence.

Eventually, I stand. My legs are stiff, my chest heavier. I don’t look back—if I do, I’ll never leave. It should’ve been me.

On the way home, I take the long route, windows down—hoping the night air might kill the ache in my chest.

It doesn’t.

Sophia.

Her face slips into my mind—mischievous, with that careless dip of hair.

Reckless, but innocent.

And suddenly, I feel a flicker of relief—from Camilla’s death.

Her pouty lips when I snapped at her earlier... her tear-streaked cheeks when she ran out.

Christ.

I don’t deserve softness.

Not from Camilla.

Not from Sophia.

I need gas.

I pull into a half-lit station on the edge of the road. The pump is slow—like the day, like my thoughts.

“Lucien?”

I turn.

She blinks. “God. It’s really you.”

I haven’t seen her in years—Camilla’s best friend. The one who vanished right after our engagement. Moved overseas. Sent flowers, but never came back. Until now.

“Martha.”

She hasn’t changed—same sharp eyes, same blunt tone.

She steps forward and hugs me before I can react.

“You look like hell,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “Still stubbornly handsome, though.”

I huff—half a laugh, half a crack in the mask. “You always do lie well.”

She steps back, scans me. “I just got back from Uganda. Tried calling, but figured you’d ignore it.”

“You really do look like shit,” she adds, one more scan for good measure.

I chuckle.

“Yeah.”

She gives a short laugh. “I never imagined running into you here.”

“Yeah.” My voice drops. “I was… visiting her.”

Her voice softens. “First time?”

I nod.

Martha doesn’t push. She never does. That’s why Camilla loves her so much.

“I heard you took her position at the university.”

“I had to,” I mutter. “I need to finish what she started.”

Her expression falters. “You’re still punishing yourself? What about your company—your life?”

I say nothing.

She glances away, then back. “Camilla wouldn’t want that.”

“She’s not here to stop me.”

She studies me. “You seeing someone?”

I look away. “No.”

She gives a dry laugh. “Still lying to yourself, huh?”

My jaw tightens.

“She’d want you to live, Lucien. Not bury yourself with her memory. She loved you. That should’ve been your reason to keep going.”

I stay silent. She steps back, keys in hand.

“If you ever need someone who knew her… I’m around.”

I watch her leave.

She’s always the one who understands Camilla best—sometimes more than I do.

And now she’s back.

I drive off.

Don’t look back.