6. Camille
— ? —
Camille
I wake to sunlight and the smell of coffee strong enough to strip paint.
Nathan’s side of the bed is empty but still warm, and somewhere in the apartment I can hear him cursing under his breath.
A smile tugs at my mouth as I stretch, my body aching in all the right places, and I take a moment to catalog the unfamiliar sensations: the pleasant soreness between my thighs, the whisker burn on my neck and chest, the bone-deep satisfaction that comes from being thoroughly, devastatingly fucked.
Four times. We did it four times last night. The man has stamina that should be studied by science.
I find one of his t-shirts draped over a chair and pull it on, padding barefoot toward the kitchen. The sight that greets me stops me in the doorway.
Nathan is standing at the counter in nothing but gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his back muscles flexing as he battles with the coffee maker. His hair is mussed from sleep - and from my hands - and there’s a scratch on his shoulder blade that I definitely put there around 2 AM.
“That coffee maker owes you money or something?”
He turns, and his whole face transforms when he sees me. Softens. Lights up in a way that makes my chest ache.
“It owes me an apology, at minimum.” He crosses the kitchen and pulls me into his arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” I grin up at him. “In the best possible way.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” I rise on my tiptoes to kiss him properly, and what starts as a gentle good-morning kiss quickly turns into something hungrier.
His hands slide under the t-shirt to grip my bare ass, and I’m two seconds from suggesting we skip coffee entirely when my phone starts buzzing violently on the kitchen counter.
“Ignore it,” Nathan murmurs against my mouth.
“It might be important.”
“Nothing is more important than this.”
But the buzzing continues, insistent and annoying, and I reluctantly pull away to grab it.
Diane Whitmore. My stomach tightens.
“I need to take this.”
Nathan nods, stepping back but keeping one hand on my hip, grounding me.
“Turn on the news,” Diane says without preamble. “Channel 4. Now.”
Nathan’s already reaching for the remote, and a moment later, the TV flickers to life.
Jared’s face fills the screen.
The crawl beneath reads: INVESTMENT BANKER ARRESTED ON EMBEZZLEMENT CHARGES.
“Holy shit,” Nathan breathes.
The footage shows Jared being led out of his apartment building in handcuffs, his hair disheveled, wearing sweatpants instead of his usual designer suit. He looks haggard. Broken. Nothing like the golden boy who used to command every room he walked into.
“The DA moved faster than I expected,” Diane explains through the phone. “They’re charging him with embezzlement, wire fraud, and misappropriation of client funds. Total amount: $2.3 million over four years.”
“Will he go to prison?”
“If convicted? Five to ten years minimum.” A pause. “There’s more. The DA wants your testimony. Since you’re divorcing, spousal privilege doesn’t apply. Your financial records could be key to proving he hid assets.”
I watch Jared on the screen, watch the man I married being led away in handcuffs, and wait to feel something. Satisfaction. Vindication. Guilt.
Instead, there’s just a calm, crystalline emptiness. Like watching a stranger’s tragedy unfold.
“I’ll testify.”
“You’re sure? His lawyer will try to tear you apart on the stand.”
“Then let him try.” My voice is steady. Certain. “I want Jared to know exactly who brought him down. I want him to look at me in that courtroom and understand that the wife he thought was too trusting, too naive, too devoted - she’s the reason he’s going to prison.”
Nathan’s hand tightens on my hip. When I glance up at him, there’s something fierce in his expression. Pride, maybe. Admiration.
“I’ll have a prep team ready by end of week,” Diane says. “This is going to be a fight, Camille. But I think you’re ready for it.”
“I am.”
I hang up and turn to face the TV again. Jared is being loaded into a police car now, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. The mighty fallen.
“How do you feel?” Nathan asks quietly.
“Free.” The word surprises me, but it’s true. “I feel free.”
He pulls me against his chest, and we stand there watching the coverage, his heartbeat steady against my back, his arms wrapped around me like armor.
For the first time in a very long time, I feel like myself again.
***
That evening, we’re curled up on Nathan’s couch - my head in his lap, his fingers combing through my hair - when the doorbell rings.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
“No.” His brow furrows as he stands, and I follow him to the door, wrapping his robe tighter around myself.
He checks the peephole. His whole body goes rigid.
“What?” I move closer. “Who is it?”
“Alexis.”
My blood runs cold. “What the hell is she doing here? How does she even know where you live?”
“Jared probably told her.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t have to open it. I can call the police, have her removed-”
“No.” Something hard settles in my chest. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
“Camille-”
“Open the door, Nathan.”
He doesn’t like it. That much is obvious from the tension in his shoulders, the protective way he positions himself slightly in front of me. But he opens the door.
Alexis looks like hell. Mascara-streaked. Clothes wrinkled. Her pregnant belly straining against a shirt that doesn’t fit anymore. When she sees me standing behind Nathan - in his robe, obviously having just rolled out of his bed - her face crumples.
“They arrested him.” Her voice cracks. “They won’t let me see him. They won’t let me post bail. I don’t know what to do, Camille. I have no one. Mom and Dad won’t talk to me. My friends-” She breaks off, sobbing. “You have to help me. Please. You’re the only one who can fix this.”
I stare at my sister.
My baby sister, who I used to carry on my hip when she was too tired to walk. Who I defended against playground bullies and mean girls and every person who ever made her cry. Who I begged my husband to hire when no one else would, who I welcomed into my home and my life and my heart.
My sister, who repaid me by fucking my husband for eight months and getting pregnant with his child.
“Help you,” I repeat, my voice flat. “You want me to help you.”
“I know I don’t deserve it. I know what I did was unforgivable. But Jared - he’s all I have now. And the baby - your niece - doesn’t she deserve to know her father?”
Nathan steps forward, his voice ice-cold. “You need to leave.”
“I’m not talking to you.” Alexis’s eyes flash with something ugly. “I’m talking to my sister.”
“Your sister is done talking to you.” His hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “You made your choice, Alexis. You chose him over her. Now you get to live with the consequences.”
“This isn’t your business-”
“Camille is my business. Her happiness is my business. And watching you stand here, begging her to clean up your mess after everything you did?” His voice drops, dangerous. “That pisses me off in ways I can’t even describe.”
Alexis’s gaze darts between us, and something shifts in her expression. The desperation hardens into spite.
“Wow. Moving on fast, aren’t we, Camille? Jared’s best friend?” She laughs, ugly and sharp. “I wonder how long this has really been going on. I wonder if you’re any better than me.”
The accusation hangs in the air.
And something inside me snaps.
“The difference between you and me,” I say quietly, “is that I never touched Nathan while I was married. I never looked at another man, never let myself want anyone except my husband, because I actually meant my vows. You want to know when this started? It started after I walked in on you bent over Jared’s desk with his hand in your hair.
It started after I found out my sister had been fucking my husband for eight months while I cried myself to sleep wondering why he didn’t want to touch me anymore. ”
My voice rises, years of swallowed pain finally breaking free.
“I gave him everything, Alexis. I gave up my business. I gave up my friends. I gave up every dream I had to be the perfect wife, to be available whenever he needed me, to build the life he wanted. And while I was doing that? You were sending him dirty texts and meeting him at hotels and laughing about how clueless I was.”
Tears are streaming down my face now, but I don’t care.
“So no. I’m not going to help you. I’m not going to bail out the man who destroyed my marriage. I’m not going to smile and play nice so you can pretend we’re a happy family. You made your choice. You chose him. Now live with it.”
I step back from the door.
“We’re done here.”
Nathan closes the door in her face.
For a moment, I just stand there, shaking, the adrenaline draining out of me and leaving nothing but hollow exhaustion. Then Nathan’s arms are around me, pulling me against his chest, and I bury my face in his shoulder and finally, finally let myself fall apart.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you, Camille. It’s over. She’s gone.”
“I’m sorry.” The words come out ragged, broken. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry she showed up here. I’m sorry-”
“Hey.” He pulls back, cupping my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. You hear me?”
“I just... I’m so tired, Nathan. I’m so tired of being angry. I’m so tired of hurting. I just want it to stop.”
“It will.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it will. And I’ll be right here the whole time. Every step.”
“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Why do you want this? Want me? I’m a mess. My life is a disaster. There are a hundred women who would be easier-”
He silences me with a kiss.
Not a passionate kiss. Not a hungry kiss. Something softer. Sweeter. The kind of kiss that says I’m not going anywhere without using any words at all.
“I don’t want easier,” he says when he finally pulls back. “I want you. Mess and disaster and all. I’ve wanted you for five years, Camille. And now that I finally have you?” His thumb traces my cheekbone, wiping away tears. “I’m never letting go.”
I don’t have words for what I’m feeling. So I kiss him instead, pouring everything I can’t say into the press of my lips against his, and when he lifts me up and carries me back to his bedroom, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay.