“Erika, I know Camille is a star, but she’ll never want someone like me. She wants her career. You? You’ll stay. You’ll care. You’ll be my peace.”
He said he would give me the best life in return.
He gave me a kitchen. He gave Camille everything else.
I stood beneath the soft lights and smiled at the camera. Not a forced smile, not the kind I wore when guests came over or when Camille handed me a gift “just because.”
This smile was mine.
I left the studio with a print in hand. A single photograph of me in a dress I chose, in a life I finally began to claim.
That evening, the house was still empty. They had all gone out—another dinner, maybe another celebration. Probably laughing, posting photos I wasn’t in.
I didn’t care.
Because I wasn’t staying.
I opened my laptop. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Flight to Paris – One seat.
I clicked.
Booked.
I would go to Paris—not as a wife or a plus-one.
Not as a ghost in someone else’s celebration.
But as a woman fulfilling her own dream.
The next morning, I stayed in bed, the suitcase zipped and ready by the door. I heard footsteps, voices, laughter in the hallway. I didn’t move.
But then Kier barged into the room, annoyed. “Where is the necklace?”