Marry the Spare, Not the Heir

Chapter 4

Camila packed slowly this time, no longer in the frantic rush of that first night. She moved through the guesthouse room by room, gathering the things that were truly hers, setting aside everything that had only ever belonged to the life she was leaving.

Her hand paused on a small wooden box tucked in the back of her closet.

She hadn't opened it in over a year.

Inside was a photograph, corners soft from handling, of her and Diego on the night he'd proposed.

Flashback

It had been her twenty third birthday. Diego had taken her to the cliffside behind his family's old summer property, a place they used to go when they wanted to escape the noise of the main estate. The sun had been setting, the sky streaked orange and pink, and Camila had teased him the whole drive up about how he never planned anything romantic.

"You'll see," he'd said, grinning. "Tonight's different."

They'd sat on a blanket near the edge, watching the light fade over the water, and Camila had leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling, for the first time in longer than she could remember, like her life was finally settling into place.

"Camila," he'd said, and something in his voice made her sit up. "I know things have been complicated. Between our families, the money, all of it. But none of that has ever changed how I feel about you."

He'd pulled a small ring box from his jacket, and Camila had forgotten how to breathe.

"Marry me," he'd said. "Not because our fathers arranged it. Because I want to spend my life with you."

She had said yes before he even finished opening the box. She had cried, laughed, thrown her arms around his neck so hard they'd both nearly tumbled off the blanket.

She had believed every word of it.

End of flashback

Camila closed the box gently and carried it to the small fireplace in the guesthouse's sitting room. She knelt in front of it, opened the box, and looked at the photograph one last time.

Then she set it in the flames.

The corners curled first, the orange light eating slowly inward until Diego's smiling face disappeared into ash. Camila didn't cry watching it burn. She only felt something settle deeper inside her, a door closing somewhere she wouldn't be reopening.

She fed the fire the ring box next, then a stack of old letters he'd written her during a brief period apart in their second year together, sweet, foolish things about missing her, about counting days.

None of it was ever the whole story, she thought, watching the paper blacken and fold. I was just useful.

Her phone buzzed against the table. Diego's name lit the screen.

"Don't forget, Friday. Wear the blue dress, the one you wore to my cousin's wedding. My mother loves that one."

Camila stared at the message for a long moment. Before, the request would have felt like tenderness, him remembering a detail, caring what she wore. Now it read like something else entirely.

Dress the part. Play along a little longer.

She typed back a short reply. 'I'll be there.'

She meant it, though not in the way he would assume.

Later that night, as the last of the photographs turned to embers, Camila's phone rang again. This time it wasn't Diego.

"Camila." Alonso's voice was warm, businesslike. "I spoke with my board today. The position is yours whenever you're ready. We'd like you to start with the Prescott acquisition, if you're comfortable jumping in quickly."

Camila closed her eyes, something like relief loosening the tight knot in her chest. "I'm ready now."

"Good," Alonso said. "There's someone I'd like you to meet first, actually. He's overseeing the Prescott deal alongside me. I think you'll work well together."

"Of course," Camila said. "Whenever works."

"Wonderful. I'll set it up for this week."

She thanked him and ended the call, sitting quietly in the dim, ash scented room. Outside, the estate lights glittered coldly in the distance, a life she was already halfway out of.

For the first time in five years, Camila felt something that wasn't grief, wasn't anger, wasn't even hope exactly.

She felt ready.