Chapter 9 #2
“The Holy Spirit led me to do it. It started with a couple people and then I opened it up to everyone. I figured that if the hospitality gets them to come to church that’s still a win. You don’t know, a seed may be planted.”
“Yes,” Camille said, smiling. “or watered. I’ll be back on Sunday.”
He nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear that we made an impression on you.”
“Yes, you certainly have.”
~*~*~*~
Camille stepped into her walk-in closet and surveyed the rows of carefully curated clothing. She knew her Bible study with Aaron later that evening wasn’t a date—but she still wanted to look nice. As she weighed her options, her phone rang.
She crossed back into the bedroom and picked it up.
Carlo Carlucci.
Her fingers stilled and her chest tightened.
She hadn’t heard from her father in months. Silence had been easier—cleaner. Forgiveness, she was learning, was rarely clean.
She had been reading about it lately. About how bitterness corrodes the vessel that carries it. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Four years earlier, when she’d taken control of her finances and uncovered the mismanagement, the truth had felt like betrayal layered upon betrayal.
When she fired him, he had lashed out—calling her ungrateful, entitled, blind to all he’d sacrificed.
He claimed every reckless decision had been love in disguise.
She exhaled. Forgiveness did not mean pretending that it hadn’t happened. It didn’t mean calling evil good. It didn’t mean subjecting herself—again—to his charm.
Still. Christ had forgiven her far more. She answered.
“Hello.”
When Carlo asked to meet, Camille hesitated—not because she feared him, but because she feared her own heart. She knew how easily old wounds reopened. She had prayed about this very thing. Lord, show me how to forgive without being foolish.
“When?” she asked.
“Today. I’ll be in Malibu, so I thought it would be a good time to chat.”
“That’s a little sudden. I have an appointment today.” Her bi-monthly spa treatment.
“Oh.” His disappointment was audible.
“But maybe I can reschedule,” she said hurriedly.
“I won’t take long. Just a few things I wanted to discuss.”
Camille was seated on the patio by the pool, eating a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs, when her housekeeper, Luma, approached.
“Miss Carlucci, your father is here to see you.”
She lifted her glass of soda. “Let him come out here.”
She heard him before she saw him—his voice animated, charming, keeping up a running commentary that had Luma laughing helplessly. Then came the scent of his expensive cologne, moments before he appeared.
Carlo was dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece dark blue suit in a luxurious wool-cashmere blend, finished with a statement watch that probably cost more than most people’s annual salary.
He wasn’t conventionally handsome—average height, average build, unremarkable features—but what he lacked in movie-star looks, he made up for in sheer charisma.
Growing up, Camille had pieced together fragments of his story.
He was the son of Italian immigrants who never quite made it. His father had been a construction laborer and part-time hustler. His mother did laundry work, washing and ironing for others.
Carlo hated that life. He longed for something more. He learned early how to read people the way others read textbooks and he made a life out of smooth words.
He liked to say he had been born with a gilded tongue—and people believed him. He could charm suspicion into silence, glide past questions, and close a deal before anyone realized one had been made.
Then he met Rita Santos.
They crossed paths on the set of a jewelry commercial. Carlo played a minor role behind the counter; Rita was the luminous centerpiece—a young woman dazzled by engagement rings. Under the lights, her long dark hair caught the glow, and something in him sharpened.
He pursued her with intensity.
Rita, young and hopeful, was swept up in it. Before long, the life they had pretended to sell on camera began to take shape around them—rings, promises, a future imagined in bright, glittering strokes.
But Carlo’s charm was a veneer.
His money came from hustles. From half-truths polished into opportunity. Rita didn’t understand the extent of it until after they were married.
By then, the unraveling had already begun.
Two years later, Camille was born into a household under strain. Money was tight. Rita’s career had stalled.
But Camille—
Camille was extraordinary.
People stopped to look at her. Cameras loved her instinctively. Rita entered her into small competitions at first, and Camille won them all. That led to commercials. Then small roles. Then more. Doors began to open for Camille that had never opened for Rita and she pushed them wide.
At four, Camille was discovered at a recital by a talent scout who saw star potential in the tiny girl with the captivating brown eyes. Television followed quickly.
Camille would later say, what four-year-old wants to be working?
And she hadn’t liked it—not really. Yes, she was tutored on set, but her life was never normal.
It was lines to memorize. Agents to meet.
Interviews to give. Appearances to make.
She was groomed. Everything she did was preparation—for the big time.
Acting. Singing. Dancing. Media training. Even how to smile.
The family reshaped itself around her. Rita became her manager and Carlo took control of the money.
Camille had grown up on a hit sitcom. When it ended, she transitioned into films, then landed another television series at fourteen. By twenty, everything accelerated.
Shadow Peak became a phenomenon almost overnight—a sprawling, visually stunning fantasy that captivated millions.
By the end of its first season, records had shattered and Camille had become a megastar.
Awards followed. Magazine covers. Interviews.
Endless public attention. Her salary skyrocketed. The industry treated her like royalty.
And then, at twenty-three, she decided to make an investment on her own.
That was when everything unraveled.
For years, her father had been mismanaging her money to fund his own schemes. Taxes had gone unpaid. Accounts had been mishandled. The empire she thought was secure had been rotting beneath the surface for a long time.
When she confronted him, he first claimed it was a mistake. Then he blamed other people. Finally, cornered, he admitted he had simply handled things his way. Everything he had done, he insisted, had been for her.
When Camille shot back that he had ruined her life, Carlo called her ungrateful. Told her that everything she had—the fame, the fortune, the opportunities—existed because of him.
Rita had been furious. She demanded to know what he had done and why.
“She knew,” Carlo snapped bitterly. “She didn’t want the details because the lifestyle benefited her too. Don’t let her play saint.”
Rita screamed at him.
Camille stood there sobbing because, in that moment, she no longer knew who to believe.
And Carlo walked out.
No apology. No backward glance.
When he finally contacted Rita afterward, she told him not to return. She said she would have his belongings shipped to him.
But what followed was even worse.
The government wanted its money.
All of it.
Camille’s accounts were frozen. Assets seized. Properties leveraged. Her reputation suffered a public humiliation she could neither control nor escape.
For the first time in her life, she felt stripped bare.
She loved her parents. But after everything that had happened, she no longer felt she could fully trust either of them.
And something inside her—something deep and foundational—fractured.
The certainty she had once carried so effortlessly was gone.
Now Carlo approached Camille with that same practiced charm—embracing her, kissing both cheeks, showering her with compliments.
She felt the familiar pull. A child’s instinctive hope that this time might be different. Still she kept a level head.
“I can say the same for you,” she said. “You’re quite dressed up. What’s the occasion?”
“I’m attending a wedding.”
“In Malibu?”
“Yes. A famous couple. You may know him.” He named the groom.
“I’d heard they were engaged. Didn’t realize today was the big day. How did you get an invitation?”
“We’re in a business venture together.”
Camille raised a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Legitimate, I hope.”
“Camille, what are you suggesting?”
“Well, you’ve been involved in Ponzi schemes in the past, Papa.”
“No, those were legitimate ventures that didn’t work out. There are risks in any business. I know you’re still angry about the tax issue, but I stand by my position. I believe the government unfairly taxes its citizens.”
“That’s ludicrous. Whether you agree with taxes or not doesn’t change the fact that they’re legally required. I can’t believe you’re still defending this.”
“You can’t deny I made some good investments for you.”
“What was the point when I had to liquidate most of them to pay fines and penalties? Let’s not discuss this. Why did you want to see me?”
“How’s my wife? I haven’t heard from her in a while.” He still referred to Rita as his wife, which, technically, she was even though they had been separated for the last four years.
“She’s well.”
“Is she seeing anyone?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Are you?”
“Me? Oh no. So, how’s the new movie going?” he asked.
“Quite well.”
There was a pause.
“Simon Halden called me yesterday,” Carlo said.
“Simon called you? Why?”
“He said that he wanted my support in trying to get you back in his life. I told him I wasn’t sure how much influence I still had with you.” He paused, waiting. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “He said he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get you back. Full creative control. More money.”
“He already told me that.”
“There’s one thing that is new.” Carlo cleared his throat. “He asked me for your hand in marriage. Said that his divorce is now final.”
Tears welled unexpectedly. “That’s too little, too late. I hope he didn’t leave his wife for me. I don’t want him. He’s a terrible person. And I can’t believe you’re endorsing him—what is he paying you?”
Her father looked wounded. “That’s unkind. He begged me for help, and I believe he truly cares for you. I’m sure that a man like him can get any woman he wants.”
“I assume the show’s ratings dropped after I left. That’s why he’s pursuing me. Simon doesn’t love me. He never did. Lust isn’t the same thing as love.”
“Well, I delivered the message. That’s all. I’m done now.”
“Good.”
“So, Camille—about the business venture. I wanted to offer you an opportunity to get in on it.”
“No, Papa.”
“You haven’t heard me out.”
This was the boundary. And it hurt.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said quietly then she stood. “You should go. I have an engagement this evening.”
As he left, Camille sat back down, suddenly exhausted.