12. Sophia
— ? —
Sophia
Camille found me in the workshop the next morning.
I was early, earlier than usual, because I hadn’t slept and the apartment had the hush of a crime scene.
The guest room walls had closed in around me while I replayed Alexander’s words on an endless loop: Some days, being around you is exhausting.
By five a.m., I’d given up on rest entirely and come here instead, to the only place that was still mine.
“Sophia.” Camille’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Do you have a minute?”
I looked up from the clasp I was pretending to work on. She was standing in the doorway, tablet absent for once, her hands folded in front of her like a penitent approaching the altar.
“What do you need?”
“I wanted to talk to you about what’s happening.” She stepped inside, glancing around the workshop as if checking that we were alone. “I know you suggested to Alexander that I might be involved in the security incidents.”
My stomach tightened. “He told you that?”
“He didn’t have to. I could tell from the way he was looking at me yesterday.” She pulled out the stool across from my workbench and sat, her posture carefully open. “I understand why you might think that. I have access to the systems. I know everyone’s schedules. I’m always around.”
“And?”
“And I wanted you to know that I understand. I’m not offended.
” Her expression was earnest, sympathetic.
“You’re under enormous pressure. Someone is clearly targeting you, and the most logical suspect is someone close to Alexander’s orbit.
If I were in your position, I’d probably be looking at me too. ”
I studied her face, searching for the crack in the composure, the tell that would confirm everything I suspected. Her eyes were clear, her voice steady, her body language radiating nothing but concerned professionalism.
“I’ve actually been thinking about whether I should step back,” she continued. “Give Alexander some space while the investigation continues. I don’t want to be a source of tension in your marriage, Sophia. That was never my intention.”
“Wasn’t it?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Camille’s expression flickered, just for a moment, before resettling into sympathy.
“I know we’ve had our misunderstandings. The coffee invitation, the anniversary dinner, the nickname issue.” She shook her head slightly. “I’ve been thoughtless. I got so focused on doing my job well that I stopped thinking about how my presence might feel to you. That’s on me, and I’m sorry.”
She sounded sincere. She looked sincere. Every word was pitched perfectly to make me feel like the unreasonable one, the jealous wife who’d been seeing threats where none existed.
“You offered to step back,” I said slowly. “But you’re still here.”
“Because Alexander asked me to stay. He needs support right now, especially with the gala so close.” She spread her hands.
“But I want you to know that if you’d prefer I wasn’t around, I’ll understand.
I’ll find another position, recommend a replacement, make the transition as smooth as possible.
Your marriage is more important than my job. ”
The offer sat in the quiet between us. Generous. Selfless. Exactly what a good person would say when falsely accused.
Or exactly what a master manipulator would say to cement her position as the innocent party.
“I appreciate that,” I said finally, because I didn’t know what else to say. “I’ll think about it.”
Camille nodded, rose from the stool, and headed for the door. She paused at the threshold, looking back with an expression of genuine warmth.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve always admired what you’ve built here. The cascade necklace is extraordinary. I hope the investigation gets resolved quickly so you can enjoy the launch the way you deserve.”
She left. The workshop fell silent around me, and I sat there staring at the half-finished clasp in my hands, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Either Camille was innocent and I’d been tormenting a blameless woman for months, or she was so skilled at manipulation that she could offer to leave while knowing full well that Alexander would never let her go.
I didn’t know which possibility was worse.
The morning passed in a haze of mechanical work and circular thoughts.
I avoided Alexander’s office, avoided the main corridors, avoided anything that might force me to interact with the outside world.
Pierre arrived around nine and took one look at my face before settling into companionable silence at his bench.
I was grateful. I didn’t have words for what I was feeling.
Around eleven, I needed fresh air. The workshop felt suffocating despite its high ceilings, and my hands were too unsteady for delicate work. I grabbed my coat and headed for the back stairwell, the one that led to the small courtyard where staff went to smoke.
Alexander’s office door was open as I passed.
I didn’t mean to look. I was going to walk by without stopping, without engaging, without giving myself another opportunity to witness a moment that would hurt. But my eyes betrayed me, sliding sideways through the glass wall, and I saw them.
Camille was standing beside Alexander’s desk, her body angled toward his, her hands at his collar.
She was straightening his tie, adjusting the knot with the casual intimacy of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.
Alexander was scrolling his tablet, not even registering the touch, his focus entirely on whatever problem demanded his attention.
She finished the adjustment and stepped back, her lips moving on words the glass kept from me. Alexander nodded without looking up, and Camille smiled before turning toward the door.
I should have kept walking. I should have added this to the catalog of small violations and processed it later, in private, where I could fall apart without witnesses.
Instead, I waited until Camille had disappeared down the opposite hallway, and I walked into my husband’s office.
“Sophia.” He looked up, and I saw the wariness in his eyes. The memory of yesterday’s fight was still fresh between us. “I didn’t expect you.”
“I saw Camille touching your tie.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Just now. She was adjusting your collar. Straightening the knot.”
Alexander glanced down at his tie, as if he could find evidence of the interaction in the silk. “I didn’t notice.”
“I know you didn’t. That’s the problem.”
“Sophia, I’m sure she was just being helpful. If my tie was crooked…”
“You didn’t notice her doing it, Alexander. A woman who isn’t your wife had her hands on your clothing, and you were so accustomed to it that it didn’t register as unusual.” I kept my voice steady through sheer force of will. “Do you understand how that looks? How that feels?”
“I think you’re reading too much into a harmless gesture.”
“And I think you’ve normalized things that shouldn’t be normal.
” I moved further into the office, closing the door behind me.
“I told you yesterday that she’d straightened your tie before.
You said you didn’t remember. Now I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and you’re still telling me it doesn’t mean anything. ”
“It doesn’t mean anything because there’s nothing between us.” He set down his tablet, giving me his full attention. “Sophia, I understand that you’re upset. Yesterday was… I said things I shouldn’t have said. But this obsession with Camille is…”
“Don’t call it an obsession.”
“What would you call it? Every conversation we have circles back to her. Every grievance eventually lands at her feet. You’ve decided she’s the enemy, and now you’re interpreting every innocent action as evidence of a conspiracy.”
“Every innocent action happens to involve her being physically close to you in ways that should be reserved for your wife.”
“She fixed my tie. That’s it. That’s all that happened.
” He gripped the back of his neck, frustration evident in every line of his body.
“I can’t start treating every normal interaction as a betrayal just because you’ve decided to see it that way.
I will not spend the rest of my life second-guessing whether my assistant is allowed to hand me a coffee cup because you might interpret it as inappropriate. ”
“I’m not asking you to treat everything as a betrayal. I’m asking you to notice when someone is too comfortable with you. I’m asking you to see that the boundaries have eroded.”
“The only thing I see is my wife looking for reasons to be angry.”
I stared at him. At this man I’d married, who loved me and still couldn’t understand why his words cut so deep.
“I’m going to go now,” I said quietly. “Because if I stay, I’m going to say things I’ll regret.”
“Sophia.”
“I need air, Alexander. I need to be somewhere that doesn’t feel like I’m losing my mind.”
I left before he could respond.
Julian Moreau texted me that afternoon.
I hadn’t seen him in months, not since his gallery opening back in spring.
We’d been friends since art school, back when I was young and ambitious and convinced that talent was the only thing that mattered.
We’d dated briefly, a few months of dinners and conversations and kisses that never quite caught fire, and then we’d settled into the friendship that had always suited us better.
Heard through the grapevine you might need a drink. Free tonight?
I stared at the message for a long time. Julian had no connection to Whitmore Maison, no stake in the drama that had consumed my life. He’d known me before I was Sophia Laurent-Whitmore, before I became the creative director, before my identity got tangled up with a legacy I’d married into.
Yes, I typed back. God yes.
We met at a wine bar in the 11th, far enough from Saint-Germain to feel like neutral territory. Julian was already there when I arrived, his dark curls slightly longer than the last time I’d seen him, his smile warm and uncomplicated.
“You look terrible,” he said, standing to kiss both my cheeks. “And I mean that with love.”