CHAPTER EIGHT

The Ex-Wife

Camille woke to the quiet rhythm of Julian’s heartbeat beneath her cheek. The penthouse was still dark, save for the orange city light spilling through the windows. For a moment, she pretended they were normal—just two lovers tangled together, with no contracts, no secrets, no scars.

But reality was never so kind.

Last night had felt different. Too different. He hadn’t touched her like a man trying to possess her, but like one who feared she might vanish. And that scared her more than any of his threats ever had.

Because when obsession started to feel like intimacy… it became harder to tell the difference.

Julian stirred, lips brushing her hair. “You’re awake.”

Camille lifted her head slowly. “Barely.”

His hand skimmed her waist. “Last night… I didn’t plan it.”

“Neither did I,” she whispered.

He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes again. She watched him, wondering how a man who looked so peaceful in sleep could feel like a loaded weapon when awake.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and heading out.

“Work,” he explained, straightening his cufflinks. “I’ll have Dominic drive you if you want to go anywhere.”

Camille gave him a tight nod. “I’ll be here.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment—something unreadable flickering there—then he left.

The moment the door clicked shut, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

Because she had.

Camille didn’t mean to snoop.

At least that’s what she told herself when she wandered into Julian’s home office.

It was cold and precise, like everything he owned. Black wood desk, glass walls, minimal decor—except for one photo. A woman. Blonde. Delicate. With haunted eyes.

She reached for the frame. The back had a name scrawled in faded ink: Annabelle.

A jolt went through her chest.

Camille had never heard Julian mention an Annabelle.

She turned the photo over again, searching for context, and spotted a newspaper clipping beside it—tucked underneath a sleek silver box.

“Thorne Heir Weds European Heiress in Secret Ceremony.”

Camille’s eyes widened. The woman was Annabelle Voss—daughter of a wealthy Belgian family. Married to Julian five years ago.

Married.

He’d been married.

She dug deeper into the drawer. Another article.

“Voss-Thorne Divorce Finalized: ‘Irreconcilable Differences’ Cited.”

The dates didn’t add up. They’d divorced just three years ago. Which meant… he was still married when Camille met him.

But the worst part?

A third article. This one smaller. Hidden like a bruise.

“Annabelle Voss-Thorne Admitted to Westcliff Psychiatric Hospital.”

No details. Just the headline. And a date. Just six months ago.

Camille backed away from the desk like it burned her.

What had happened to her?

Was Julian the reason she ended up in that hospital?

She didn’t sleep that night.

She couldn’t.

When Julian returned home, he was all charm and warmth. He brought her flowers. Her favorite wine. He cooked dinner—cooked, not ordered in. Camille stared at him like he was a stranger wearing Julian’s face.

“I thought we could celebrate,” he said, pouring the wine.

“Celebrate what?”

He smiled. “Us.”

She nearly choked on her sip.

“There is no us, Julian.”

He tilted his head. “Then what was last night?”

“A mistake,” she said carefully. “A beautiful one. But a mistake.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re lying.”

She set the glass down. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

The room went still.

Julian’s hand froze mid-reach. His expression didn’t change—if anything, it grew more neutral.

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” he said at last.

“She’s in a psychiatric hospital.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “And?”

“And that’s not normal,” Camille snapped. “People don’t just go mad. Something pushed her.”

Julian stepped closer, voice darkening. “You think I did?”

“I think you break things, Julian,” she said, heart hammering. “And I think she was one of them.”

A shadow passed across his face.

“You don’t know anything about her.”

“Then tell me.”

But he didn’t.

He just walked away.

Later that night, Camille couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Julian’s face—somewhere between regret and rage. There was still so much he wasn’t saying.

So she searched again.

This time, she found it in the master bedroom. A sleek mahogany drawer she’d never seen open. Locked.

She hesitated.

Then checked the edge of the doorframe where she’d once seen Julian hide a spare key.

There it was.

Camille slid the key into the lock.

Click.

Inside were stacks of papers, boxes of cufflinks… and photos.

Dozens.

Of her.

At first, she thought they were recent. But no—some were from months ago. One was from her graduation. Another from a beach trip with friends she hadn’t seen in a year. Another from the street outside her old apartment.

She sifted through them, heart pounding. These weren’t just pictures from their time together. These were before she’d ever met him.

Before the contract.

Before the penthouse.

Before she even knew his name.

One photo slipped from her hand, landing face up.

She was laughing in it. Hair wet. No makeup. Sitting on the hood of her college roommate’s car. She remembered that day.

She remembered feeling safe.

She remembered believing her life was her own.

Camille staggered back, breathing hard.

This wasn’t love.

It had never been love.

This was surveillance.

This was obsession.

This was predation.

Behind her, a soft voice spoke.

“You weren’t supposed to find that.”

Camille froze.

She turned slowly.

Julian stood in the doorway, no longer charming. No longer vulnerable. His eyes were unreadable again.

Except for one thing.

He wasn’t surprised.

She thought she was uncovering his past.

But all along… she was walking straight into it.