Kier let out a harsh laugh. “You? Erika, it’s a business trip, not a vacation. Don’t dream too high. You wouldn’t even know how to keep up with the conversations. You’d just embarrass us.”
“I could just—”
“No,” he cut in. “This is for work. Camille’s part of the brand’s pitch. You’d be out of place. You don’t even have clothes for something like this.”
“I could—”
“She’ll stay,” he said flatly, turning to Camille. “She can finish the chores while we’re gone.”
Camille hesitated, eyes flicking to me with what might have been pity—or performance. “We’ll bring you something back,” she offered, with a thin smile.
My lips stretched into a small nod, but I felt it. The heat behind my eyes. The silence in my throat. The lump in my chest I had learned to swallow every day.
And then they laughed.
Not mean-spirited, not sharp—but casual. The way people laugh when they’re comfortable, when they forget someone else is in the room. Like I was a joke. Like I wasn’t even there.
Their voices trailed down the hallway as they made plans—restaurants in Paris, what Camille should wear, how the photos would look.
I turned slowly, walked into our room, and shut the door behind me.
No tears this time. Just stillness.