Camilla's POV

About thirty minutes later, I found myself strapped to a hospital bed, thick restraint bands digging into my wrists. My skin was cold, my mind foggy—but my ears caught every word of the argument happening just outside the door.

Brandon’s voice cut through first, sharp, irritated.

Then came Dr. Nathan Reed, Brandon's childhood friend.

“Brandon, I don’t care if you feel nothing for Camilla anymore,” Nathan snapped. “She carried your children without complaint. She stood by you for six damn years. And now, just because Sabrina’s pregnancy is high-risk, you’re tying Camilla down and forcing her into a uterus transplant? You understand that no matter what happens to Sabrina, Camilla will never be able to have children again.”

“Not having children is just fine. Sounds ideal, doesn’t it?” Brandon’s voice came back flat and emotionless. “Besides, Lyra’s death just proved Camilla was never meant to be a mother. Taking her uterus out ends this little fantasy she keeps clinging to—about giving me another kid. Women like her will do anything for a piece of status. As long as they’ve got food and a roof over their head? They'll follow orders.”

Then I heard footsteps approaching my room. I quickly shut my eyes and forced my body still.

A finger brushed a stray hair off my cheek.

“Camilla,” Brandon murmured, his voice soft. “If you just cooperate and go through with this simple surgery, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

For the first time in our marriage, he truly sounded gentle.

But I didn't flinch. Without glancing at him, I slowly opened my eyes, keeping my focus on Nathan, who stood behind him.

“Dr. Reed,” I said quietly, “please go ahead with the surgery. I’ve got something I need to take care of after.”

Nathan blinked. “Something to take care of?”

Disbelief etched itself into Brandon's face as he turned towards me. His lips parted, his eyes hardening into that familiar, chilling stare, questioning what a woman like me, a housewife, could be up to in the middle of the night.

Before he could say anything, his phone rang.

I recognized the ringtone instantly—Sabrina.

He picked up without hesitation.

"Sabrina, there's no need to be scared," he said gently. “I’m coming right now.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Nathan’s eyes lingered on the door before turning back to me, his expression softening with pity.

“Camilla,” he said quietly, “you still have a choice. It’s not too late.”

I remembered my dad. A decade ago, Brandon paid for his chemotherapy and hospital expenses.

So I gave Nathan a faint smile, shook my head, and said, “I just need one favor from you, Dr. Reed…”

...

Two hours later, the first thing I saw was Brandon, sitting by the bed like he’d been there all night. Judging by his calm, almost satisfied expression, I could tell that Sabrina’s surgery must’ve gone smoothly.

He leaned forward to me and asked, “Camilla, you didn't tell me earlier what you want as a reward."

I blinked slowly, keeping my voice even. “You can peel me an apple.”

That simple, harmless request made him pause, catching him off guard.

He must have thought I was starving because, just minutes later, the room was overflowing with takeout bags from all my favorite restaurants. Back then, Brandon barely ever sat down to eat with me. But now, he was right there at the table, watching, waiting for me to dig in.

But I didn’t touch a thing.

He frowned, set down his utensils. “If none of this is what you want, just tell me. I’ll have someone bring you whatever you’re craving.”

I looked straight at him and said plainly, “It’s fine. I’m not hungry.”

Right then, my phone buzzed.

The number was unknown and did not have a caller ID.

Curious, I got up, stepped into the bathroom, and answered, "Hello?"

The familiar voice on the other end was low, gravelly, and tinged with worry. “Camilla, I just landed at Port City Airport. I don’t see you. Is it because…you still can’t let go of him?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Something came up on the way. I got delayed.”

His voice tightened. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you? Just send me your location. I’ll come find you.”

I cut him off gently before he could spiral. “I’ve got it handled. Can you wait for me?”

Without hesitation, he answered, “Of course, I’ll wait.”

And that was all I needed to hear. I lowered my head, pressing my lips together, trying to hold back the smile tugging at the corners.

Then a loud slam startled me. The bathroom door burst open, and Brandon stood in the doorway.

He marched in, his eyes blazing.

Camila's POV

“Camilla, who were you talking to in there?” Brandon asked, his voice low, suspicious, already tilting toward confrontation.

I ended the call just in time and met his gaze—steady, unbothered.

“Just a friend,” I replied, cool and flat.

'Just a friend.' The words tasted ridiculous the second they left my mouth.

What kind of “friend” do you sneak off to the bathroom to call while your husband’s sitting in the next room?

He was already connecting the dots, probably gearing up for one of his signature interrogations—half accusation, half performance, when a low rumble of thunder rolled in from outside the window.

And just like that, I lost him. His whole body tensed, attention shifting.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and rushed down the hallway toward the VIP suite.

Because, of course, Sabrina was afraid of thunderstorms.

Every time it rained, he dropped everything to be with her. It didn’t matter what he was doing or if I was in the middle of a sentence or a breakdown.

I used to cry. I used to beg. I used to chase after him like my love could compete with her fear.

But this time? I didn’t move.

No scene. No meltdown. No grabbing of his sleeve and whispering, 'Please don’t go!'

I just stood there.

Halfway down the hall, he slowed down, looking confused.

I wasn’t behind him.

Something twisted in his face—tight, foreign. He furrowed his brow, not sure why it suddenly felt wrong.

But he didn’t turn back. He just kept walking, assuming I was finally learning my place.

...

The next day, as if I’d somehow earned a reward, Brandon dragged me to the mall.

No heads-up. No, “Do you want to come?”

He just pulled me along with him and Sabrina as if I were a dog on a leash. I trailed behind them while they wandered from boutique to boutique, laughing and whispering as though they were the stars of some painfully cliché romance.

And me? I was the extra in the background.

Everyone in that mall knew I was Mrs. Doyle. But it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to him.

Salesgirls smiled politely—too politely—as they handed me shopping bags like I was the hired help.

“Thank you for stopping by, ma’am,” one chirped, her eyes flicking to Sabrina like she was royalty. I stood there holding heels, designer sweaters, a stupid pink maternity coat—as if I should be grateful.

Brandon didn’t say a word. He had one arm around Sabrina, planting a kiss on her hair while she leaned into him with that smug little smirk.

By the time we made it to the elevator, my arms were numb. I was sore, still recovering from surgery, barely hanging on.

And then I missed a step. My foot caught the edge. My knee buckled.

Everything—bags, boxes, pride—crashed to the floor with me. I hit the ground hard, pain lancing through my shoulder as clothes and shopping bags scattered everywhere like some pathetic explosion of luxury.

Neither of them turned around.

Not even once. No one turned back.

While I was picking myself up, Brandon was already in the baby boutique with Sabrina, helping her pick out onesies.

Pink or blue? She couldn’t decide.

He just smiled, pulled out his black card, and handed it to the clerk.

“We’ll take everything,” he said.

I finally caught up, still looking a mess, just in time to hear one of the employees gush to Sabrina.

“Ma’am, I’m so jealous of your little baby. He’s not even born yet, and he already has such a perfect, loving dad.”

Looking at the little star-patterned hair tie around my wrist, I remembered the day when our daughter, Lyra, was struck by sudden, acute meningitis.

Her fever wouldn’t break. Her lips were pale. Her little hands kept reaching for me.

I had called Brandon 199 times.

His phone wasn’t off. He just didn’t pick up.

In the ER, her voice was barely a whisper. “Mommy… I promise I won’t steal milk candy again.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Why would you say that, baby?”

“Because Daddy must be mad at me,” she said. “I wasn’t good. That’s why he won’t come to see me. Mommy, I’m sorry. I’m a useless kid. I couldn’t help you make Daddy love you.”

Later, when the doctors told me she might not make it, I went to Sabrina’s apartment and begged to let Brandon come to the hospital with me.

I dropped to my knees outside her door, pleading.

Crying.

She didn’t come out. But her bodyguards did.

They dragged me down the hallway and slapped me.

Over and over.

By the time the hospital called to say Lyra was gone, Brandon was just waking up from his afternoon nap. He opened the door, yawned, and looked at me like I was trash left on the curb.

My face was swollen and bruised. I could barely speak.

All he said was, “Didn’t I tell you not to bother Sabrina? This is what you get for not listening.”

Snapping back to the present, I put down all the shopping bags, turned around, and started walking toward the exit. Just then, Brandon grabbed my wrist with a firm grip and pulled me into the jewelry store on the top floor.

“Camilla,” he said, his tone unreadable, “didn’t you always complain about wanting a necklace?”

He brushed my hair off my shoulder, trying to make it look like some affectionate gesture. Then he turned to the counter and started browsing.

Off to the side, Sabrina watched in silence. Then, as if on cue, she stepped in, curling herself against his chest.

She looked at me with a soft, sugary smile.

“Camilla,” she said sweetly, “if it weren’t for your generous donation of your uterus, our baby might not have made it. Brandon, don’t you think we should have a little dinner tonight to thank her properly?”

Brandon smiled down at her, brushing her bangs aside like she was made of porcelain.

“My precious Sabrina, whatever you want, we’ll do it," he replied.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t decline.

I had some documents I needed to grab from the villa, anyway.

So I smiled faintly, nodded, and said nothing. It wasn't because I wanted dinner.

It was because I needed to go back one last time.

Camilla's POV

On the drive home, I sat in the back seat, silent, staring out the window while Brandon and Sabrina’s soft moans and giggles floated up from the front.

They weren’t even trying to hide it.

Sabrina was curled against him like a high school girl on a date, her voice all sugary-sweet as she whispered, “Brandon, you’re so bad… We shouldn’t be doing this. What if Camilla finds out?”

Brandon let out a low laugh and leaned in to nip at her ear, acting like I wasn’t even there. But I caught him checking the rearview mirror—again and again—trying to catch a reaction.

I gave him nothing.

Just kept tapping away at the mobile game on my phone, calm as ever.

If he was waiting for a meltdown, he was going to be disappointed.

But I saw it.

The same flicker in his eyes I’d noticed that night outside the bathroom. The suspicion, the unease, creeping back in like smoke curling around a flame.

Then came the snap.

“Camilla, hand me a tissue,” he barked, holding out a damp hand without even looking.

I didn’t blink. Just passed him a tissue and went right back to my screen like he was invisible.

Not a second later, he yelled, “What the hell are you even looking at?”

Before I could say a word, he reached over and yanked the phone from my hands. His eyes narrowed the second he saw the lock screen.

“Why did you change your background?”

For years, it had been the same photo of me, him, and Lyra. That perfect little image of a family that never really existed. But that was gone and replaced by a random default image that was generic and meaningless.

And somehow, that hit him.

His whole expression changed. His jaw clenched. His face darkened like a storm cloud rolling in.

When I didn’t answer, he threw the phone back at me, disgusted.

As we started winding up the hill toward the villa, Sabrina piped up like a child with a craving.

“Brandon, I really want shrimp croquettes…”

Brandon didn’t even hesitate.

He hit the brakes hard, turned to me, and said coldly, “Get out. Go home and make dinner.”

Just like that. No shame. No explanation.

He kicked me out of the car like I was an assistant who’d overstepped. Like I was nothing.

So I walked.

Two hours in heels, each step cutting deeper, until the skin on my feet was torn and bleeding.

But I made it.

I didn’t stop. Just went straight to the spot near the villa gate where I’d hidden my documents. My fingers were shaking as I dug them out, but I didn’t care—I was done.

I was leaving.

And just as I turned to go, a rusted-out truck came screeching around the corner. Tires screeched. Dust flew.

Before I could move, two men jumped out.

No warning. No talking.

Just hands—rough, fast, unforgiving. They grabbed me and dragged me toward the truck. Blacked-out windows. Slammed doors. Gone.

...

When I came to, the air was thick with dust and the stench of rusted metal. I was on the cold floor of what looked like an abandoned mine. Vision blurry. Limbs numb. The silence pressed down like a weight.

And then I saw her.

Sabrina.

She looked like she was headed to a fashion shoot with her heels, red lipstick, and a designer coat.

Not a hair out of place.

She walked toward me slowly, heels clacking against the concrete with every step. Then, with zero hesitation, she ground the pointed toe of one into the back of my hand.

I didn’t flinch.

Her lips curled into a sneer. “God, Camilla. Look at you. You’re pathetic! Brandon and I are having a baby, and you’re still clinging to him like a sad little leech.”

She knelt beside me, voice dipped in faux sympathy, but her eyes were gleaming. “Still playing the victim, huh? Still hoping he’ll feel guilty enough to throw scraps your way? Let me save you the heartbreak, idiot, Brandon’s only ever loved one woman.”

She then leaned closer, her breath like sugar laced with poison. “And it’s me.”

I must’ve smiled—just a little.

Her expression twisted instantly. “You bitch! What are you laughing at?!”

I looked her dead in the eye. “You. You're just wasting your time, Sabrina. This...your entire plan? It’s just embarrassing.”

She snapped.

Her hand flew before I could blink.

Once.

Then again.

Harder the second time.

But this time she smiled while she did it, like she enjoyed it. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.

“You still think you’re winning?” she hissed. “You never figured out what really happened to your daughter, did you?”

My stomach dropped.

Sabrina leaned in, so close I could see every ounce of venom in her eyes.

“At Lyra’s birthday party,” she said with a twisted smile, “I made a little joke. Told her, ‘If you’re brave enough to eat a whole snot slug, your daddy will come home and blow out the candles with you.’ I didn’t think she’d actually do it. But she did.”

My stomach dropped.

“She got sick—really sick. You didn’t know that part, did you? She called Brandon herself. While we were watching a movie.”

She shrugged, so casually I could’ve screamed.

“He looked at the caller ID and said, ‘She’ll be fine. Let her sleep it off.’ Then he hung up.”

I couldn’t breathe. My entire body went cold.

And then something inside me snapped.

I lunged. “You heartless witch!”

I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her deeper into the mine, yanking her toward the exact spot I knew they had buried the dynamite.

She shrieked, kicking and flailing, nails clawing at my arms as she cursed me like a woman possessed.

That’s when the men came back. They saw us, yelled, and rushed in.

They slammed me to the ground. Fists flew. Boots hammered into my ribs, into my back. It all came in waves—sharp, crushing, unrelenting.

Then, somewhere in the chaos, someone stepped on the detonator.

A deafening boom shattered through the cavern. The ground shook like the earth itself had cracked open. The walls groaned. Dust and debris rained from above.

The mine roared like a living, angry beast.

And for a split second, I thought: 'This is it.'

The walls shuddered. The air turned to smoke. The ground cracked beneath us.

And then, I heard him.

“Camilla!” Brandon’s voice, wild with panic, rang through the dust and rubble.

More shouting followed—authorities, police.

“Mr. Doyle! You can’t go in! It’s not safe—the mine’s collapsing!”

But he didn’t stop. “I don’t care! I’m going in to get her!”

He shoved past them, disappearing into the debris. Somehow, through all that smoke and broken stone, he found me.

Our eyes met, just for a second.

And then, from behind him, came that voice.

Soft. Fragile. Timed like a dagger.

“…Brandon.”