Chapter Four

Chapter 4

STEFAN'S POINT OF VIEW

The scotch burned going down, but I poured another anyway. My third? Fourth? I'd lost count somewhere between signing those divorce papers and watching Camille walk away.

Our wedding photo still sat on my desk, mocking me. Camille's genuine smile, my distracted eyes, already looking past her, always looking for Rose.

Rose.

Even her name felt like betrayal now.

My phone lit up with another message from her: "Darling, stop drinking and come over. We should celebrate."

Celebrate. Like we hadn't just destroyed someone who loved us. Someone who'd given me three years of devotion I never deserved.

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Stefan?" Camille's voice was small, uncertain. "Did I do something wrong?"

I looked up from my laptop, irritated at the interruption. She stood in the doorway of my home office, holding a plate of something that smelled amazing.

"I made that pasta you mentioned. The one with truffles?" Her eyes were hopeful. "Rose gave me the recipe..."

Of course she had. Rose had made that pasta for me in Rome, years ago. Back when we were... whatever we were.

"I'm busy." I didn't even look at the plate. "Just leave it."

"Oh." A pause. "It's just, you've been working late all week, and I thought..."

"Camille." My voice sharp with an anger that wasn't really meant for her. "I said I'm busy."

She left the plate and disappeared, quiet as always. The pasta sat untouched until morning, a perfect recreation of a memory that belonged to another woman.

I hurled my glass at the wall, watching crystal shatter like the life I'd built on lies.

God, I'd been cruel. Not just at the end, but throughout our marriage. Every missed dinner, every forgotten anniversary, every time I'd chosen work over her, all excuses to avoid the guilt of wanting her sister.

My phone buzzed again. Mother this time.

"Darling, I just heard from Rose. Are you alright? Do you need anything? I always said Camille wasn't suited for our family..."

I silenced the phone, remembering another moment I'd tried to forget.

"She's trying so hard, Stefan." Rose's voice was gentle as she poured me another drink. We were alone in my office after another disastrous family dinner. "Maybe if you gave her more guidance..."

"Like you did?" I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Teaching her all the ways to be perfect?"

Rose's laugh was musical, practiced. Everything about her was practiced. "Are you saying you preferred me imperfect?"

The air between us crackled with unspoken history. Four years of passion and plans, ended by her sudden departure to London. Or so she'd claimed.

"Why did you really leave?" The question slipped out, colored by whiskey and old pain.

"You know why." She touched my cheek, familiar and forbidden. "Camille needed a chance at happiness. We both agreed..."

Had we? I couldn't remember anymore. Everything from that time felt hazy, manipulated. Like watching a play where I'd forgotten my lines.

"She loves you," Rose whispered, too close now. "More than I ever could."

But her eyes said something different. They always had.

Another memory surfaced, this one from last week. The moment everything changed.

"I made your favorite breakfast." Camille's smile was bright, genuine. Always so damn genuine. "Happy anniversary."

The divorce papers burned in my briefcase, Rose's perfume still lingering on my clothes from our late-night "meeting."

"I can't." I grabbed my keys, avoiding her eyes. "Early meeting."

"Oh." Her voice cracked slightly. "Will you be home for dinner? I thought we could..."

"Don't wait up."

I'd spent that evening with Rose, planning how to break the news. She'd worn the same perfume she'd worn in Rome, all those years ago.

"It's kinder this way," she'd said, stroking my hair. "A clean break. Camille will understand eventually."

Would she? The look in her eyes when she'd seen Rose's photo...

My office door opened, startling me from the memory. Mother stood there, perfectly coiffed even at midnight.

"Really, darling. Drinking alone in the dark?"

"Not now, Mother."

She clicked across the room, surveying the broken glass with disapproval. "Rose is worried about you. We all are."

"Worried?" I laughed, harsh and broken. "Like you were worried about Camille all these years?"

"That girl was never right for you." Mother's voice hardened. "Rose, on the other hand..."

"Stop." I stood, unsteady. "Just... stop."

"Stefan Rodriguez, you will not speak to me that way. I raised you better..."

"Did you?" The words exploded out of me. "You raised me to what? String along a woman who loved me while pining for her sister? Listen to you tear her down at every opportunity?"

Mother stepped back, shocked. In twenty eight years, I'd never raised my voice to her.

"Everything she did was wrong, wasn't it?" I continued, the scotch making me brave. "Her clothes, her manners, her cooking. Nothing was ever good enough. But Rose... Rose was perfect."

"Because she understands our world! She..."

"She understands manipulation." The truth hit me like a freight train. "She played us all. You, me, Camille..."

"Don't be ridiculous." Mother straightened her designer jacket. "Rose loves you. She always has."

Had she? Or had she loved the game more?

I remembered the cold calculation in her eyes when she'd orchestrated our "chance" meetings after returning from London. The way she'd encouraged Camille's insecurities while playing the supportive sister.

Even our reunion two months ago felt staged now. The charity gala, Camille conveniently "sick," Rose in that dress I'd loved in Rome...

"Mother." I sank back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "Please leave."

"Stefan..."

"Go. Tell Rose... tell her..." What? That I was sorry? That I finally saw through her perfect mask? That I'd destroyed my marriage for a fantasy she'd carefully crafted?

Mother left, her disappointment hanging in the air like expensive perfume. Like Rose's perfume. Like all the artificial, manipulated pieces of this life I'd chosen.

My phone lit up with another message. Rose again: "Darling, stop being dramatic. Come home. To me."

Home.

I looked around my office, at the shattered

glass and scattered papers. At Camille's wedding photo, her genuine smile now seeming like an accusation.

What had I done?