Chapter 4
1983 Words
Camille arrived home a few minutes past midnight.
She was exhausted. The engagement banquet had lasted four hours, four hours of smiling and nodding and pretending to be thrilled about marrying a man who was essentially holding her hostage with legal threats and a ridiculous amount of money.
She'd barely gotten her key in the door when it swung open.
Her father stood there, face red with anger.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Camille blinked at him. Richard Whitfield was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that had probably been intimidating when she was younger. Now, at twenty-three and thoroughly exhausted, Camille just found him annoying.
"Out," she said.
"Out?" His voice rose. "You disappear for an entire day without a word, don't answer your phone, and all you have to say is 'out'?"
"I was at an event."
"What kind of event requires you to be gone from morning until midnight?"
Camille opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Patricia's voice cut through from the top of the stairs.
"Richard? What's going on?"
'Oh good,' Camille thought. 'The whole family's awake. Perfect.'
Patricia came down the stairs in her silk robe, her hair in curlers, her expression already primed for confrontation. Behind her, Claire and Vanessa emerged from their rooms, both in matching pajama sets that probably cost more than Camille's entire wardrobe.
"Camille's finally decided to grace us with her presence," Richard said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Patricia's eyes narrowed as she looked Camille up and down. "Where have you been? And why are you dressed like that?"
Camille glanced down at herself. She was still wearing the emerald green dress from the banquet. It was beautiful, expensive, and completely out of place in the modest Whitfield household.
"I was at a party," she said, too tired to come up with a better lie.
"A party," Patricia repeated, her voice sharp. "Dressed like a common…"
"Patricia," Richard warned.
"Don't 'Patricia' me. Look at her! She's been out doing God knows what, with God knows who, dressed like some kind of…"
Camille yawned.
She couldn't help it. The yawn just came, wide and unrepentant, right in the middle of Patricia's tirade.
Patricia's face turned an impressive shade of red. "Are you yawning? Are you seriously yawning while I'm talking to you?"
"Yes," Camille said, yawning again. "I'm tired. Can we do this in the morning?"
"You disrespectful little…"
"Mom! Look!"
Vanessa's voice cut through the argument. She was staring at her phone, her eyes wide.
Claire rushed over to look at the screen. "Oh my God."
Patricia turned to them, momentarily distracted from her anger. "What is it?"
"There's this photo," Vanessa said, turning her phone so everyone could see. "It's trending. Some girl kissed Brent Sterling at a Valentine's gala."
Camille went very still.
'Oh no.'
Claire zoomed in on the photo. "You can't really see her face. It's all blurry. But apparently no one knows who she is."
"Brent Sterling," Patricia breathed, and there was something almost reverent in her voice. "From the Sterling family?"
"The one and only," Vanessa confirmed. She looked at the photo again, then at Camille. "Wait. Doesn't this girl kind of look like…"
"Don't be ridiculous," Claire interrupted, laughing. "That can't be Camille."
"I mean, the hair color is similar…"
"Vanessa." Claire gave her sister a look. "Look at the dress. Look at the venue. That's the Rosewood Hotel. Do you really think Camille could get into an event like that?"
Vanessa considered this. "True. And besides…" she looked at Camille with barely concealed disdain "Brent Sterling would never kiss someone like her. He's got standards."
'If only you knew,' Camille thought, fighting the urge to laugh.
"Exactly," Claire agreed. "This girl is probably some socialite. Someone from his world. Not…" she waved vaguely at Camille "…whatever this is."
Patricia was still staring at the phone, her expression calculating. "Brent Sterling," she murmured. "Imagine if one of my daughters caught his attention."
"Mom, we're way too young for him," Claire said. "He's like, thirty-something."
"Thirty-six," Camille said without thinking.
Everyone looked at her.
'Oops.'
"How do you know that?" Patricia asked slowly.
Camille shrugged. "I read it online somewhere. He's famous. It's not exactly a secret."
Patricia's eyes narrowed, but before she could say anything, Camille yawned again.
"I'm going to bed," she announced. "We can continue this delightful conversation in the morning."
"We're not done…" Richard started.
But Camille was already walking up the stairs, too tired to care about the consequences.
Behind her, she heard Patricia say, "That girl is getting more and more disrespectful by the day."
And Richard's response: "What do you expect? She's just like her mother."
Camille's jaw tightened, but she didn't stop walking.
She made it to her room, closed the door, locked it, and fell onto her bed without even taking off the dress.
She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
--
She was awakened two hours later by a noise.
Camille groaned and pulled the pillow over her head, but the noise continued.
It was Patricia's voice. High-pitched and excited.
'What now?' Camille thought miserably.
She dragged herself out of bed and cracked open her door.
Downstairs, the entire house seemed to be lit up. She could hear voices — multiple voices, not all of them familiar.
Camille padded to the top of the stairs and looked down.
There were men in the living room. At least six of them, all in black suits, all carrying boxes wrapped in red and gold paper.
And standing in the middle of it all was Matthew.
Camille's stomach dropped.
'No. No.'
She'd escaped from the banquet. She'd made it perfectly clear she didn't want any part of this insanity. She'd hoped stupidly, apparently …. that Brent Sterling would take the hint and find someone else to blackmail into marriage.
But no.
Of course not.
The audacity of this man was unbelievable.
Patricia was at the door in her robe, looking confused. "Can I help you?"
Matthew stepped forward with a polite smile. "Good evening, Mrs. Whitfield. I apologize for the late hour. My name is Matthew Chen, personal assistant to Mr. Brent Sterling."
Patricia's eyes went wide. "Brent Sterling?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Sterling has instructed me to deliver these betrothal gifts to your family."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Patricia's hand flew to her mouth. "Betrothal gifts? For... for one of my daughters?"
"That's correct," Matthew confirmed.
Patricia looked like she might faint. She gripped the doorframe for support. "I… I don't understand. Which daughter?"
"Mr. Sterling will visit in three days to formally request her hand in marriage," Matthew said, smoothly avoiding the question. "These gifts are a gesture of his sincere intentions."
"Three days?" Patricia's voice came out as a squeak.
"Saturday evening, at seven p.m., to be precise." Matthew gestured to the men behind him. "May we bring this inside?"
"Oh! Yes! Of course!" Patricia stepped back, practically stumbling in her haste to let them in.
The men filed into the house with military precision, carrying box after box after box.
Jewelry boxes. Designer shopping bags with logos Camille recognized even from upstairs. A stack of what looked like property deeds. And …. Camille squinted … was that an actual check?
Patricia was making small, breathless sounds as each gift was carefully placed in the living room.
"This is… this is too much," she stammered. "I mean, we're honored, of course, but…"
"Mr. Sterling believes in being thorough," Matthew said. "He wants to ensure your family understands the seriousness of his intentions."
Richard appeared from the bedroom, pulling on a robe. "Patricia, what on earth…" He stopped dead when he saw the scene in the living room. "What is all this?"
"Brent Sterling wants to marry one of our daughters!" Patricia grabbed his arm, her voice climbing to near-hysteria. "Richard! The Brent Sterling!"
Richard's face went through several emotions in rapid succession. Shock. Disbelief. And then pure, undiluted joy.
"The Sterling family," he breathed. "One of our daughters is going to marry into the Sterling family."
"Everything has been arranged," Matthew continued professionally. "The ceremony will take place three weeks from now. Mr. Sterling has already secured the venue and made all necessary preparations. He simply requires your consent and your daughter's presence."
"Our consent?" Patricia laughed, a high, slightly manic sound. "Of course we consent! We're thrilled! Aren't we thrilled, Richard?"
"Absolutely thrilled," Richard agreed, still staring at the gifts.
"But which daughter does he want?" Patricia pressed, her eyes darting between Matthew and the stairs where her bedrooms were. "I have two beautiful girls, Vanessa and Claire. Both accomplished, both…"
"Mr. Sterling will make his choice known when he visits on Saturday," Matthew said firmly. "I trust that gives you sufficient time to prepare?"
"Yes! Yes, of course!" Patricia was already mentally cataloging everything that would need to be done. "We'll make sure everything is perfect. The house, the girls, everything!"
"Excellent." Matthew handed her a business card. "If you have any questions or concerns before Saturday, you can reach me at this number."
Patricia took the card like it was made of gold. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Matthew gave a polite nod. "We'll see you Saturday evening, then. Seven p.m. sharp."
"Seven p.m.," Patricia repeated. "We'll be ready."
Matthew and his men filed out as efficiently as they'd arrived, leaving Patricia and Richard standing in a living room full of extravagant betrothal gifts.
The door closed.
Silence.
Then Patricia let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a scream.
"Richard! Richard, do you know what this means?"
Richard was staring at the pile of gifts like he couldn't quite believe they were real. "One of our daughters is going to marry into the Sterling family."
"The Sterling family!" Patricia grabbed his hands. "Do you understand? The Sterlings! This is everything we've ever wanted!"
And then they started dancing.
Actually dancing, right there in the living room at two in the morning, doing some kind of awkward waltz around the boxes of betrothal gifts.
Camille's hands clenched into fists.
'He can't do this,' she thought furiously. 'He can't just send gifts to my house like I don't have a choice.'
But apparently he could. Because he was doing it.
"But which one?" Patricia said suddenly, stopping mid-spin. "Which daughter does he want?"
"Does it matter?" Richard asked. "Either way, we'll be connected to the Sterlings."
"True, true." Patricia's eyes gleamed. "Though I suppose it's probably Vanessa. She's the prettier one."
"Claire is more accomplished," Richard countered. "She went to that fancy university."
"But Vanessa has that delicate, feminine quality men like."
"Claire is more mature. More suitable for a man of his age and status."
They were actually debating which of their daughters a billionaire would prefer, like they were comparing prize horses.
Camille backed away from the stairs and returned to her room.
She closed the door, locked it again, and paced back and forth in the darkness.
'The nerve. The absolute nerve of him.'
But then a thought occurred to her.
Patricia and Richard thought the gifts were for Vanessa or Claire.
What if...
What if Brent Sterling picked one of them instead?
Camille stopped pacing.
They were both desperate to marry rich. They were both willing to do whatever it took to climb the social ladder.
'Maybe he'll realize one of them would be a better choice,' she thought. 'Maybe when he shows up on Saturday, he'll take one look at Vanessa batting her eyelashes or Claire playing sophisticated, and he'll forget all about blackmailing me.'
It was a slim hope.
But it was hope nonetheless.
Camille climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
Three more days to figure out how to make Brent Sterling pick literally anyone but her.
- Writer
