Behind The Mask

Chapter 23: The Perfect Victim

POV: Camilla

The flight back from Paris had been an absolute nightmare.

To call it an insult would be a severe understatement. Maxwell had not even offered me a seat on his private jet. After he lost his mind tracking Fiona down at some filthy, rat-infested roadside motel, he had his security team shove her into the back of his armored SUV and drove straight to the airport. He left me sitting in the penthouse holding a standard first-class commercial ticket. It had arrived via an automated email from his assistant, accompanied by a cold, three-word text message from Maxwell himself telling me to go back to New York.

I had been forced to endure the indignity of walking through a public airport, dealing with customs, and sitting on a commercial airliner for eight agonizing hours. First-class or not, the champagne was aggressively mediocre, the flight attendant was completely inattentive, and I had to spend the entire journey over the Atlantic fuming while Maxwell’s Gulfstream soared privately somewhere above me.

For five days since landing, I had been sitting in my luxury apartment, waiting for my phone to ring. It never did.

I paced across my floors, biting my thumb nail. Maxwell was slipping through my fingers. He had his two million dollars back in play, he had his power back, and yet, all he cared about was his pathetic, boring wife. I knew exactly what was happening in that mansion. Fiona was probably playing hard to get, and Maxwell was blindly, desperately chasing her like a dog after a bone.

If I didn't do something drastic, and fast, I was going to lose him forever. I would be right back where I started: a nobody with a shrinking bank account.

I stopped pacing and looked around my living room. Everything in here- the silk drapes, the custom leather seating, the modern art on the walls- was a testament to my ability to extract wealth from powerful men. But it was all just surface-level capital. I needed the ultimate acquisition.

Maxwell was a man who needed to be in control. He had a hero complex. If he could not control Fiona, I just needed to give him a situation where he could control me. He needed to feel like a powerful protector again.

I picked up a heavy, crystal vase from the entryway table. I took a deep breath, raised it above my head, and slammed it down onto the hardwood floor.

It shattered into a hundred glittering pieces with a loud, satisfying crash.

A wicked smile spread across my face. My heart rate picked up with the thrill of the gamble. I went to work.

I flipped the glass coffee table over, cracking the surface. I grabbed a pair of scissors and violently slashed the cushions of my sofa, pulling the stuffing out so it looked like a struggle. I ran into my bedroom, threw all my clothes out of the closet, and dumped my jewelry box onto the floor, kicking my most expensive necklaces under the bed.

To sell the lie, it had to look violent and real.

I walked into the bathroom and stared at my reflection. I picked up a sharp shard of glass from a broken perfume bottle. I winced as I dragged the sharp edge across my upper arm, making a shallow but bloody cut. I smeared the blood slightly, then messed up my hair and forced myself to hyperventilate until real tears stung my eyes.

I grabbed my phone from the counter with my blood-stained fingers and dialed his number.

He didn't answer the first time. It went straight to voicemail.

I gritted my teeth and dialed again. I knew he was awake.

On the third ring, the line clicked and he finally picked up.

"What is it, Camilla?" Maxwell asked. His voice was exhausted and irritated.

"Maxwell!" I screamed, dropping onto the tile floor of my bathroom, curling into a ball and sobbing into the phone's microphone. "Maxwell, please! Help me!"

The irritation in his voice vanished instantly. "Camilla? What's going on?"

"Someone broke in!" I cried, making my voice shake perfectly. "They broke the door. They smashed everything. I hid in the bathroom, but they... they grabbed my arm. There's blood everywhere, Max. I'm so scared. Please don't let them come back!"

"Lock the bathroom door," Maxwell ordered, his voice shifting into his commanding tone used in handling emergencies. "I'm calling the police right now. Marcus and I are leaving the estate. We are on our way. Do not move. Do you understand me? Do not make a sound."

The line went dead.

I slowly lowered the phone from my ear. I leaned my head back against the bathroom cabinet and smiled through my fake tears.

Got you.

For twenty agonizing minutes, I sat on the cold bathroom floor, meticulously maintaining my state of panic. Then, I finally heard the heavy boots of Marcus and the security team sweeping the rooms, followed by Maxwell's rapid footsteps.

"Camilla!" His voice boomed down the hallway.

I unlocked the bathroom door and stumbled out, collapsing directly into his chest. I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, burying my face in his suit, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I've got you. You're safe," Maxwell said, his large hands awkwardly patting my back. Over my shoulder, he barked, "Marcus, secure the perimeter. See if the building cameras caught anything in the lobby or the service elevators."

Maxwell pulled me back slightly, his eyes scanning the wrecked apartment. When he saw the blood on my arm, his jaw tightened.

I looked up at his face, studying him. He looked completely drained. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked like a man who was desperately searching for a victory, any victory, to make himself feel powerful again.

"The police are in the lobby, securing the building," Maxwell said quietly, his tone softening as he gently led me away from the broken glass. "We'll get you checked out by a paramedic immediately."

"No!" I whimpered, clinging to his arm. I looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, channeling every ounce of vulnerability I possessed. "I can't stay here, Maxwell. The front lock is entirely broken. They know where I live. What if they come back when the police leave? I have nowhere else to go. I have no one else."

Maxwell let out a long, heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, looking entirely defeated. He didn't want to deal with this, but his sense of duty- and his desperate need to take charge of a situation- was exactly what I was counting on.

"You can't stay here," Maxwell finally agreed, his voice flat.

He slowly turned his head and looked down at me, making the fatal mistake I had been praying for since we left Paris.

"Pack a bag, Camilla," he said. "You're coming to the mansion. You can stay in one of the guest rooms until we know it's safe.”