Chapter 2 - The Photographs Inside My Home
The woman disappeared into the guests before I could stop her.
I stood.
That alone changed the atmosphere.
Christian immediately took one step away from the altar.
Giselle stared at him.
“Christian?”
“Give me a second.”
“For what?”
His eyes remained on me.
I looked at the envelope.
Heavy cream paper.
No return address.
My name written by hand.
I slipped it beneath my uniform jacket.
Christian saw.
His expression changed again.
Interesting.
He knew about it.
Or feared what might be inside.
I started walking away from the ceremony.
“Camille.”
Giselle's voice followed me.
I stopped.
Every guest seemed to be watching now.
Giselle lifted her chin.
“You can't just walk around during my ceremony.”
I turned.
“Then continue.”
She blinked.
Christian didn't.
“Camille,” he said quietly.
That was the first time he'd spoken my name aloud.
Whispers moved through the chairs.
Giselle looked between us.
“You two know each other?”
Christian opened his mouth.
I answered first.
“Yes.”
“How?”
I watched him.
He watched me.
“Ask Christian.”
Silence.
Giselle laughed nervously.
“What is this?”
Christian stepped toward me.
“Can we talk privately?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Please.”
“You're busy.”
A few guests exchanged glances.
Giselle's bouquet lowered.
“Christian, how do you know Camille?”
He didn't answer.
That told her more than any confession could.
She looked at me again.
Then at him.
Something ugly began replacing the joy on her face.
I walked toward the estate.
Christian started after me.
Giselle caught his sleeve.
“Where are you going?”
“I need five minutes.”
“During our wedding?”
He pulled free.
That caused the first audible gasp.
I entered the mansion without looking back.
A long corridor led toward several private sitting rooms.
I chose the first empty one and closed the door.
Not locked.
Deliberately.
Then I opened the envelope.
Inside were six photographs.
The first showed Christian and Giselle entering my Palm Beach house.
The second showed them meeting a man in the kitchen.
The same man from the anonymous photograph.
The third showed Christian handing him a folder.
The fourth showed Giselle alone with that man after Christian left.
The fifth was taken through the terrace windows.
Giselle was photographing papers from Christian's briefcase.
The sixth photograph made me sit down.
It showed Giselle standing inside my home office.
My locked home office.
On the desk was a document bearing my name.
I heard the door open.
Christian entered.
“Camille.”
I placed the photographs face down.
He shut the door.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I can explain.”
“That's convenient.”
“I know what this looks like.”
I almost laughed.
“You're wearing a tuxedo at another woman's wedding.”
“Our wedding.”
His face tightened.
I continued.
“She believes you're marrying her.”
“I made a terrible mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“I didn't mean—”
“Don't insult me.”
He stopped.
I stood.
“You texted your wife this morning while preparing to marry another woman.”
“I know.”
“You brought her into our house.”
“I know.”
“Our bedroom?”
His eyes lowered.
That answered me.
For the first time, anger broke through my control.
Not loudly.
That wasn't my way.
“Look at me.”
Christian did.
“How long?”
“Camille—”
“How long?”
“Fourteen months.”
Fourteen.
I mentally moved backward through deployments, holidays, phone calls, missed dinners.
Fourteen months.
“You've been sleeping beside me and lying to her?”
He said nothing.
“Or sleeping beside her and lying to me?”
“Both.”
There it was.
Ugly because it was simple.
I nodded once.
Christian looked confused.
“You're not going to yell?”
“No.”
That frightened him more.
His eyes moved toward the envelope.
“What is that?”
I watched him carefully.
“You tell me.”
“I've never seen it.”
“Then why did you look terrified when someone handed it to me?”
“Because I've been terrified since I saw you.”
Fair answer.
Not necessarily true.
I showed him the first photograph.
His face changed.
Then the second.
He stared.
“Where did you get these?”
“Someone apparently knows more about my marriage than I do.”
When I showed him the photograph of Giselle inside my office, he went completely still.
“She was never supposed to be in there.”
I studied him.
“What does that mean?”
“I never gave her access.”
“She was living in my house.”
“No.”
I almost laughed again.
“Christian.”
“She visited. She stayed occasionally. But I never gave her your office code.”
My anger sharpened into something else.
“You knew it was locked?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever enter it?”
“No.”
That part I believed.
The lock kept a record.
If Christian had entered, I would know.
“So how did she?”
“I don't know.”
He reached for the photograph.
I pulled it away.
“Who is the man?”
Christian stared at him.
“Julian Mercer.”
“Who is Julian Mercer?”
“A consultant.”
“For Dupont Enterprise.”
“What kind?”
Christian hesitated.
That was enough.
“What kind?”
“Corporate acquisitions.”
“Why was he in my house?”
“He wanted to discuss a transaction.”
“What transaction?”
Before he answered, the door opened.
Giselle stood there.
Her veil was gone.
Her expression was furious.
“You left me standing at the altar.”
Christian closed his eyes.
“Giselle.”
She stepped inside.
“Tell me what's happening.”
I picked up the photographs.
Giselle saw them.
For less than a second, panic crossed her face.
Then it vanished.
“Where did you get those?”
Christian turned sharply toward her.
“You know these pictures?”
“No.”
“You recognized them.”
“I recognized the house.”
“My house,” I said.
Giselle looked at me.
Something almost amused appeared in her expression.
“You mean Christian's house.”
“No.”
She frowned.
I continued.
“My house.”
Christian rubbed his forehead.
“Camille—”
Giselle looked between us.
“Why does she keep talking like she owns everything?”
I held her gaze.
“Because I do.”
She laughed.
“Christian owns that property.”
“We own it jointly.”
The laughter stopped.
“Jointly?”
“Yes.”
Giselle turned to Christian.
“Why?”
He said nothing.
She stepped closer.
“Why would Camille jointly own your house?”
Christian's face looked exhausted.
I almost pitied him.
Almost.
“Tell her,” I said.
“Camille.”
“You've had fourteen months to practice lying. Surely the truth can't be harder.”
Giselle's voice rose.
“Tell me what?”
Christian looked at me.
Then her.
Finally he said, “Camille is my wife.”
The room went silent.
Giselle stared at him.
Then she laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because her mind rejected it.
“No.”
Christian didn't move.
“No,” she repeated.
“We've been married three years,” I said.
Giselle looked at me.
“You're lying.”
I removed my phone.
Our marriage certificate was stored securely among personal documents.
I didn't need to show it.
Christian did the job for me.
“She's telling the truth.”
Giselle slapped him.
Hard.
I didn't flinch.
Christian didn't retaliate.
Giselle backed away, breathing rapidly.
“You told me you were divorced.”
“I said the marriage was ending.”
“You said it had ended.”
“I was going to—”
“Today?”
He had no answer.
She looked at me.
For the first time, there was no arrogance.
Only humiliation.
“You knew when you came here?”
“Not when I received your invitation.”
“But before the ceremony.”
“Yes.”
“And you sat there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to see how far he would go.”
Christian looked away.
Giselle's eyes filled.
But then I remembered the photograph.
My office.
I held it up.
“How did you get into this room?”
Her expression changed.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“This is my private office.”
“I thought it was Christian's.”
“The door has a coded lock.”
She said nothing.
Christian looked at her.
“Giselle?”
“I don't remember.”
“You don't remember breaking into a locked office?”
“I didn't break into anything.”
I stepped closer.
“Then how did you enter?”
She looked at the photograph.
Her face became pale.
“I was given the code.”
“By whom?”
Silence.
“Giselle.”
She looked toward the door.
Christian noticed.
“So there is someone else involved.”
Giselle's eyes snapped toward him.
“You don't get to question me.”
“Who gave you the code?”
She laughed bitterly.
“That's incredible. You're worried about a door after what you did?”
“Who gave you the code?”
She moved toward the exit.
I blocked her.
Not aggressively.
Simply enough.
“Camille, move.”
“Answer the question.”
Her eyes met mine.
For the first time since high school, I saw genuine fear in Giselle Dupont.
Not embarrassment.
Not jealousy.
Fear.
Then her phone vibrated.
She looked down.
Whatever she saw drained the remaining color from her face.
Christian moved closer.
“What is it?”
Giselle locked the screen.
“Nothing.”
I held out my hand.
“Show me.”
“No.”
Another vibration.
Then another.
She backed toward the wall.
Christian reached for the phone.
Giselle pulled it against her chest.
“Don't.”
“Who's messaging you?”
“No one.”
Her phone vibrated again.
This time the screen illuminated before she could hide it.
I saw the sender.
Julian Mercer.
May you like
And beneath his name was one sentence.
SHE FOUND THE ENVELOPE. GET HER OUT OF THE HOUSE.
