Chapter 24
736 Words
Camille
I didn’t expect to enjoy the silence of the office this much.
Vivian's desk sat cold and empty, her nameplate gone like she’d never existed in the first place. It was poetic, really. One day you’re walking around like you own the damn place—fake smiles, tight dresses, and sharper knives in your mouth than in your hands—and the next, you’re escorted out of the building under “administrative review.” HR-speak for: You played with fire and finally got burned.
I slid my fingers across the fresh folder on my desk. The big pitch. Closed. Sealed. Delivered. Mine. Our firm’s biggest client to date, signed on the dotted line, and I had led it start to finish.
Enrique had dropped by earlier with a subtle wink and a quiet, “You did that.” No kiss, no lingering hands—just words full of meaning, pride, and promise. It was exactly the kind of intimacy we were building: quiet fire and unshakable loyalty.
But I hadn’t seen him in hours.
Something told me he was planning something.
A knock on the glass pulled me from my thoughts. Tasha peeked in, eyes wide. “Girl… you might want to check your email.”
I raised a brow. “Which one?”
“Work one. But like… brace yourself.”
She disappeared, and a knot formed in my stomach as I turned to my monitor. New message. Unmarked sender. Subject line: “Let’s see if your new man wants to see this.”
I clicked.
Photos. Old ones—me, in lingerie, asleep. A few selfies I had foolishly taken for Matt in the beginning of our marriage. Nothing explicit, but enough to twist a narrative if someone wanted to smear me. Enough to hurt if Enrique saw them without context.
But that wasn’t what froze my blood.
It was the final image.
Matt. Standing outside my building last night. A timestamp proved it. He’d been watching. Stalking.
He was unraveling.
I hit “Forward” and sent them straight to my private investigator. Attached a note: *We’re pressing charges.*
Then I stood.
---
Thirty minutes later, I was in Enrique’s office. He’d cleared it for me. Just us. His jaw tightened as he scrolled through the photos on my phone. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. His fingers flexed, but his eyes never left the screen.
Finally, he set the phone down and reached for me.
“I’m not angry about the pictures,” he said. “I’m furious that he thinks this will work.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “He’s getting more reckless.”
“He’s getting scared. Because you’re not afraid of him anymore.”
My voice broke a little. “I was. For years, I let him dictate how I saw myself. How I moved. How I loved. But now…”
He stepped closer, arms encasing me in his warmth. “Now, you’re a woman on fire.”
We stood like that for a long time—his heartbeat steady against my cheek, his presence a shield. I had never felt more protected. More wanted.
Enrique was different. He didn’t want to fix me. He didn’t want to save me. He just *saw* me—and stood beside me anyway.
---
Later that night, I walked into my condo, poured a glass of wine, and sat by the window. The street outside glowed with citylight and noise, but for once, I felt still.
I had survived the heartbreak. The betrayal. The humiliation. And now?
I was finally living.
A knock at the door startled me. I checked the peephole. Enrique.
I opened the door, lips already forming a smile, but the look on his face stopped me cold.
“Camille…” he said carefully, “Matt was arrested an hour ago. Public intoxication. But that’s not all.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
He handed me his phone. “There’s a video going around. One of the bartenders recognized him. He’s ranting. Screaming your name. Threatening you. On camera.”
I watched in horror as Matt slurred my name, slamming a shot glass onto the bar. “She thinks she’s better than me? I made her. I’ll ruin her—watch me.”
I set the phone down.
My hands were shaking, but my voice was steady.
“It’s time to end this.”
---
- Writer
