Behind The Mask

Chapter 28: The Bitter Drink

POV: Camilla

I stared at the television screen in the living room, my hands shaking with uncontrollable anger. The screen was too bright and too loud.

The evening news was showing live coverage of the red carpet at the UN Global Relief Gala. “The UN Global Relief Gala is in full swing tonight,” I said, my smile too wide. The reporter was talking about the celebrities and politicians arriving. The feed cut to the red carpet.

Then, the camera zoomed in.

Stepping right out of a black SUV, pushing past the security guards, was Maxwell Jordan.

He didn't even have an invitation. He had promised me he wasn't going.

He’d said it last night like he meant it. “I'm not in the mood for politics and cameras, Camilla. I'll stay in.”

Liar.

But I knew exactly why he was there.

Fiona.

The name hit me like a slap. I screamed in frustration and threw the TV remote across the room. It smashed against the wall and broke into pieces, plastic and battery spilling onto the rug.

He was still chasing her. After everything I did, after I faked the break-in and moved into his house, after I held him at night and confessed to how he was the only one that understands me, he was still running after his boring wife.

It wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair.

I was losing control.

If he saw her tonight, if they talked, if he touched her arm the way he used to, he might kick me out of the mansion.

I couldn't let that happen. Not now. Not when I was so close. I had to get him back here. Right now.

I dropped to the floor and took a deep breath. The carpet smelled like lemon polish. My knees dug into the fibers. I needed to act fast.

I grabbed my phone and dialed his private number- the one saved under M with no last name.

It went straight to voicemail.

He was ignoring me.

Of course he was. Fiona was probably laughing at something, tilting her head, and he was looking at her like she’d hung the moon.

I growled in anger and quickly called Marcus instead.

"Yes, Ms. Jones," Marcus answered. His voice was cold, as if I was a problem.

"Marcus, please!" I cried, forcing my voice to shake. I started breathing fast and shallow, letting my breath get caught at the edges of my words. I had practiced this in the mirror. It sounded real. "You have to tell Maxwell to come home. My chest hurts so much! My heart is beating too fast. I think I'm having a heart attack. It's the stress from the break-in. Please, I need him!"

There was a pause on the other end. I could hear the low murmur of the hotel lobby in the background and the clink of glass.

"I will inform Mr. Jordan. We are leaving the hotel now."

I hung up the phone.

The moment the phone went dead, a wicked smile spread across my face. I stopped fake-crying instantly, wiping the damp from my eyes with the heels of my hand like it had never been there.

But a fake panic attack wouldn't keep him here all night. If he was furious about being dragged away from Fiona, he would just call a doctor, let the paramedics check my vitals and leave again the second they said I was fine. I knew him. He hated feeling responsible for other people's pain.

I needed a way to keep him trapped in this house. I needed him docile, quiet, and completely under my control.

I ran down the hallway and slipped into Maxwell’s study.

The room smelled like leather, cedar and whiskey. His scent. It made me angry and calm at the same time. I hated that it still had that effect on me.

I opened my designer purse and pulled out a small plastic orange bottle. They were prescription sleeping pills. Very heavy sedatives I used when I traveled. Doctor said it was for insomnia.

I walked over to his liquor cabinet. He always drank his favorite whiskey when he was stressed. Macallan 25. He kept it on the second shelf, like it was too good for daily use.

I took out a crystal glass. It was cold in my hand. I poured a large splash of the amber liquid into the cup. The smell hit me immediately.

Then, I took two of the white pills, crushed them into powder using the bottom of a metal pen, and dumped the powder right into the drink.

The powder clouded the whiskey for half a second before dissolving.

I stirred it with a tiny spoon until the powder completely disappeared into the whiskey. No grit. No smell. Just a slightly duller shine on the surface.

Perfect.

Ten minutes later, the front doors of the mansion banged open.

"Camilla!" Maxwell yelled.

His voice was raw. It echoed through the entry hall. I felt it in my teeth.

I ran out to the hallway, clutching my chest and looking weak. I let my shoulders sag, I let my knees wobble like I'd been holding myself up by sheer will. "Maxwell! Thank God. I was so scared."

But when I looked at his face, my heart stopped.

He didn't look worried about me at all.

He looked completely and utterly destroyed. His face was pale. His tie was pulled loose, hanging around his neck like he'd tried to rip it off and given up halfway. His eyes were wild and full of pain. He looked like a man who had just watched his whole world burn down.

He had seen her. And whatever happened at that party, it broke him.

I didn't know what Fiona had said. I didn't know if she had rejected him, forgiven him, or just looked through him like he was a glass. I didn't care. All I knew was that his guard was down.

He walked right past me.

He didn't even ask how my chest felt. He didn't care about my heart attack. He walked directly into his study, looking like a ghost, like the house was the only place that still recognised him.

I followed him quietly. My bare feet made no sound. I stood in the doorway and watched.

He didn't turn on the lights. The room stayed dark, lit only by the spill from the hallway. He walked straight to the edge of his desk. He put his hands on the wood and hung his head, breathing heavily. His shoulders shook once, like he was trying not to break.

He looked broken. Defeated.

Then, he saw the crystal glass of whiskey sitting on the edge of the desk.

"I poured that for you," I whispered sweetly from the doorway. "To help you relax."

Maxwell didn't say a single word. He didn't even look at me.

He just reached out with a shaking hand, picked up the glass, and swallowed the entire drink in one long gulp.

The glass hit the desk with a soft click when he set it down. Empty.

l smiled in the darkness. Sleep well, Maxwell.

Now you can't fight me. You're mine for the night and the night is long.

I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me with a quiet snick. The door clicked.