Behind The Mask

Chapter 15: The Uninvited Guest

POV : Camilla

Paris was a beautiful city, especially when you were about to get everything you ever wanted. The crisp morning air smelled of expensive pastries and impending victory, though I hardly noticed the historic architecture as my private car pulled up to the curb. My focus was entirely singular.

I checked my reflection in the towering, pristine glass doors of the United Nations headquarters and allowed a slow, victorious smile to curve my lips. I looked flawless. My blonde hair had been perfectly styled into effortless waves at a salon in the Champs-Élysées just an hour prior. My red lips were glossy and sharp. My designer dress- a custom, crimson silk number that clung to every single one of my curves exactly right- was a masterpiece. I had bought it, along with a matching pair of diamond earrings, using the very last of the million dollars I took from Maxwell’s safe two years ago.

That million had bought me a lot of fun such as summers in Monaco, winters in St. Moritz, endless champagne, and the kind of friends who only loved you when you were picking up the tab. But a million dollars does not last forever when you have tastes as refined as mine. The well had been running dangerously dry.

Then came the news. Just yesterday, my alerts had gone off: Maxwell Jordan had suddenly dropped a staggering two million dollars in cash on a massive humanitarian charity project based in France. The moment I read the headline, I did not even bother packing a full suitcase. I threw my most expensive lingerie and a few tailored pieces into a Louis Vuitton carry-on and booked the very first first-class flight out of Los Angeles.

I was not that stupid. I knew exactly how men like him operated. If Maxwell was throwing around millions of dollars in liquid cash again, it meant only one thing: he was back on top. He had successfully hidden his money during the fallout, rebuilt his immense wealth in the shadows, and was finally ready to step out into the light as a powerful, untouchable billionaire once again. And I was going to be right by his side to spend it. We belonged together. We were cut from the same ruthless cloth.

I walked into the lobby, my expensive, red-soled heels clicking loudly on the polished marble floor. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. It was the sound of a queen returning to her throne. I did not care about the heavily armed security guards eyeing me, or the important, frantic politicians scurrying around with their briefcases. I was Camilla Jones. I did not need a badge. I belonged at the top of the food chain, and everyone in this building was merely an extra in the movie of my life.

I bypassed the main reception desk entirely, slipping into an open elevator just as a group of diplomats stepped out. I hit the button for the executive offices. Maxwell had texted me this morning. Well, to be precise, his automated PR firm had sent out a mass text to his contacts about his new venture, mentioning his temporary office was on the top floor of the UN annex. But I knew what it really meant. He was sending a beacon. He was telling me where to find him.

I watched the digital numbers tick upward. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. I could not wait to see the look on his handsome face. He was probably so lonely without me. The women he had likely entertained over the last two years were probably cheap, temporary distractions. None of them had my fire. None of them had my style. I was genuinely excited to see him again after two whole years of silence. I adjusted my neckline, making sure the silk dipped just low enough to remind him of exactly what he had been missing.

The elevator doors pinged open with a soft chime, and I stepped out, a breathless greeting already forming on my glossy lips.

But I did not see Maxwell.

Instead, standing near a sleek marble desk at the end of the corridor, speaking quietly and authoritatively to an assistant, was Fiona.

Oh, dear, sweet, pathetic Fiona.

I stopped in my tracks and rolled my eyes so hard they nearly ached. I could not believe she was still hanging around him like a bad cold. I took a moment to observe her, scoffing quietly at myself. She was wearing a dark, navy suit that made her look entirely too serious and remarkably devoid of any feminine charm. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. Two years ago, she was just a boring, pathetic little mouse who cried in the foyer of their mansion when I took her husband right from under her nose. She had always been so desperately basic. Clearly, she thought she was so special now, just because she had managed to land a bureaucratic little job at the UN.

But I knew the truth. I had read the articles. Maxwell had just funded and practically bought this entire charity project. That meant, in my brilliant mind, Maxwell was the supreme boss of this whole operation, and Fiona was just his lowly employee all over again. The irony was almost too delicious to bear. She had tried to escape his shadow, and yet here she was, right back where she started: working for my man.

I squared my shoulders, a wicked, superior smile spreading across my face. I walked right up to her, making sure my heels struck the floor as loudly as possible to announce my grand entrance.

"Well, well," I said loudly, purposefully interrupting her hushed conversation with her aide. "Look who it is. Still playing dress-up, Fiona? Honestly, it is so pathetic."

Fiona stopped talking to her assistant. She did not flinch. She did not gasp. She slowly turned her head and looked at me. I searched her face for the familiar signs of weakness I remembered so fondly. But there were no tears in her eyes this time. There was no trembling lip. There was no fear. She just looked at me the way someone looks at a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of their expensive shoe- with mild disgust and complete detachment.

This actually got me surprised for a fleeting second, and I thought to myself if she was still the same fragile Fiona I knew. But I trust myself. I was not about to be ridiculed or intimidated by a woman whose husband I had stolen.

"Camilla," Fiona said. Her voice was completely flat, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. It was like talking to a stone wall. "How exactly did you get past security?"

"I don't need a cheap piece of plastic clearance to see my boyfriend," I lied smoothly, shifting my weight and placing a hand firmly on my hip to accentuate my figure. "Maxwell told me he bought this little pet project of yours. Which means, if we do the math, he pays your salary now. You are basically his secretary again... Just like the odd old times. So, let's get to work, shall we? Where is he hiding?"

Fiona’s young assistant gasped, clutching a stack of files to her chest, her eyes wide with shock at my sheer audacity. But Fiona simply stood perfectly still. Her eyes remained completely unbothered, her posture straight and commanding.

"I am an Ambassador," Fiona replied softly, her voice cold and sharp as a scalpel. "I don't work for Maxwell. In fact, Maxwell's donation is subject to my committee's approval. Now, get out of my office before I have you physically thrown out into the street."

"Oh, please, drop the tough-girl act," I laughed, a shrill, mocking sound that echoed off the marble walls. I waved my perfectly manicured hand dismissively in her face. "You're just mad because he texted me this morning about me coming here, aren't you? You always were so desperately jealous. Well, I do not care so much about your cheapish, made-up title. I know Maxwell wanted to make sure you knew your place, and clearly, your place is standing at a desk while he and I run the show."

Without breaking eye contact, I reached into my designer purse, my fingers grazing the cool plastic I had acquired just an hour ago. I pulled out a gold-trimmed hotel key card. It was for the master penthouse suite at the Four Seasons, a room that cost five thousand dollars a night—a room I had confidently booked under Maxwell's name this morning, knowing he would happily foot the bill once he saw me.

I held the key card out, dangling it right in front of Fiona’s face between two fingers.

"Since Maxwell is clearly busy with real business at the moment, and since you are so remarkably good at doing what you are told," I sneered, enjoying the absolute power trip of the moment. I opened my fingers, dropping the key card directly onto the glass screen of her tablet with a sharp smack. "I have a job for you. You will take this key. You will go to the hotel. You will fluff the pillows, order a bottle of Dom Pérignon- vintage, not the cheap garbage- and make up the guest bed for us. And when I say us, I am sure you know exactly who I'm talking about. Right?"

I leaned in close, invading her personal space, making absolutely sure she could smell the intoxicating scent of my thousand-dollar perfume. I wanted it to linger on her clothes long after I was gone.

"Make it look nice, Fiona," I whispered cruelly, my voice dripping with poison and honey. "Maxwell and I are going to have a very long, very exhausting night catching up, and I want the bed to be absolutely perfect for him when we are done."