Chapter 12 - Camille Came Back With Receipts
Camille waited in a small conference room on the twenty-sixth floor.
Not my office.
That was deliberate.
Mine.
Hers.
Both.
She sat with a leather folder on the table and a woman beside her whom I recognized as an employment attorney.
Camille looked different from Rome.
No dramatic coat.
No camera-ready makeup.
Her hair was pulled into a simple knot.
For the first time, I realized how often I had seen her as an image before I saw her as a person.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet,” she said.
“I should probably be thanking you for coming through official channels.”
Her attorney introduced herself as Sarah Klein.
Elena sat beside me.
Outside counsel joined by video.
Nobody pretended this was personal.
Camille opened the folder.
“I kept everything.”
Emails.
Texts.
Calendar invitations.
Contract revisions.
Travel arrangements.
For nine months, I had told myself our affair was separate from work.
The documents destroyed that fiction in less than ten minutes.
I had not explicitly threatened her career.
I had done something more convenient.
I had made access to me professionally useful.
A campaign appeared after a weekend together in Miami.
A contract extension followed a trip to Montreal.
When she tried to create distance after an argument, an executive beneath me postponed one of her shoots.
Camille tapped that email.
“I don’t know if you ordered this.”
“I didn’t.”
“I believe you.”
The relief I felt lasted half a second.
Then she added, “But everyone knew we were involved. Nobody had to be told what might please you.”
There it was again.
Culture.
Permission.
Power traveling without written instructions.
Sarah explained that Camille was not presently filing a lawsuit.
She wanted an independent investigation.
She wanted assurances that contractors could report relationships with executives without retaliation.
She wanted her remaining Laurent contracts transferred to outside management or terminated with compensation.
“And,” Camille said, “I want the company to stop pretending I seduced some innocent married genius.”
My face burned.
“Has that happened?”
She laughed once.
“Have you read comments under any article about us?”
“No.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked directly at me.
“I’m not here for that sentence.”
I nodded.
“What are you here for?”
“To make sure what happened to me doesn’t become the price another twenty-six-year-old woman has to pay for being ambitious around a powerful man.”
The room became very quiet.
I signed authorization for the investigation that afternoon.
Full access.
My emails included.
Personal communications where legally relevant.
No executive privilege beyond actual legal protections.
My attorney warned me that some material could be humiliating.
“That’s not a legal category,” I said.
He sighed.
“No.”
Camille remained after the others left.
Only for a minute.
Elena stayed outside the glass door.
“I hated Isabelle,” Camille said.
I looked at her.
“Not because I knew her. I didn’t.”
She stared at the empty folder.
“I hated what she represented. Every time you went home, I felt like I was losing a contest.”
“I made it feel like a contest.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
This time she allowed the words to remain.
“I saw her shop online,” Camille said.
My shoulders tightened.
“I haven’t contacted her.”
“Thank you.”
“She looks happy.”
“Yes.”
Camille smiled sadly.
“You know what’s strange? I thought if you finally left her, I’d win.”
I said nothing.
“Then Rome happened. Seven days. The thing I thought I wanted.”
She looked toward the window.
“And by day four, I realized you weren’t with me either.”
The sentence landed quietly.
That was why it hurt.
“You were checking numbers during breakfast. Taking calls in taxis. Looking at sketches during dinner.”
She shook her head.
“I kept thinking, if he can leave her and still not arrive here, where exactly does this man live?”
I remembered Isabelle’s letter.
I still want to be the person who comes home.
Camille stood.
“I hope you figure that out.”
At the door, she stopped.
“One more thing.”
She removed a sealed envelope from her purse.
“I found this in my suitcase after Rome. You wrote it.”
I recognized my handwriting.
On the front:
For after the announcement.
My stomach dropped.
“What announcement?”
Camille’s expression changed.
“You really don’t remember?”
I shook my head.
She gave me the envelope.
“You were planning to announce your separation after Isabelle’s birthday.”
I could not speak.
“You told me you didn’t want the timing to make you look cruel.”
Then Camille left.
I stood alone with the envelope.
For months, I had thought my greatest shame was abandoning Isabelle while she secretly faced surgery.
But the envelope in my hand suggested something uglier.
Even before I knew she was ill, I had known enough to understand that what I was doing was cruel.
My problem had never been blindness.
It had been image management.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a draft statement.
Three paragraphs.
Respectful.
Elegant.
May you like
False.
And written by me.
