Chapter 4
Story: The Stiletto Heel on Her Ribs Was Just the Beginning—He Walked In and the Camera Was Still Rolling
At seven the next morning, Camille woke to the sound of her phone buzzing on the bedside table.
She'd managed three hours of sleep, broken by nurses checking her vitals and the baby's heartbeat, and her ribs ached with a dull, persistent pain that pulsed with every breath. But when she reached for the phone, the screen lit up with a name that made her stomach clench.
Eleanor Prescott.
More precisely, it was a message from Eleanor Prescott's publicist, a woman named Dana Whitfield, who had somehow obtained Camille's private number. The message was short and professionally pleasant:
"Camille, I'm reaching out on behalf of my client regarding last night's unfortunate incident. Eleanor is deeply distressed and would like the opportunity to apologize in person. There appears to have been a misunderstanding that, I'm sure, can be resolved privately to the satisfaction of all parties."
Camille read the message three times.
Then she typed a reply: "Call the hospital's legal department. Ask for Richard Sterling."
She hit send just as the door opened and Marcus walked in, carrying a small cup of coffee and wearing the expression of a man who hadn't slept in twenty-four hours.
"Hey." His voice was rough. "You're awake."
"I'm awake."
He stood by the door, clearly uncertain whether he was allowed to come closer. The baby's heartbeat filled the room, and he listened for a moment, a muscle working in his jaw.
"They said the baby's fine."
"She's strong." Camille watched him. "The doctor said she's measuring right on track."
"Good." He took a step forward. "That's—that's good. I was so scared, Camille. When I came in and saw you on the floor—"
"You hesitated."
Marcus's face went pale. "What?"
"I said you hesitated." Camille's voice was soft, but it carried a weight that made him stop in his tracks. "You came through the door. You saw me on the floor. You heard her say I attacked her. And for one second, you believed her."
"I didn't—" His voice cracked. "I didn't know what to think. She was crying, and you were—you were bleeding, and I panicked—"
"You panicked." She repeated the word slowly. "I'm seven months pregnant with your child, and I'm on the floor of my private hospital suite, and another woman is standing over me telling you I attacked her. And you panicked."
Marcus set the coffee down on the table by the door. His hands were shaking.
"Camille, I am so sorry. I don't know what else to say. I should have—I should have run to you the second I saw you. I should have—"
"Yes. You should have." She watched him, letting the silence stretch. "But you didn't. And I need you to understand what that did to me."
"I understand." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I saw it happen. I saw you look at me, and I saw you realize I was more interested in talking to her than in helping you. And I wanted to throw up."
Camille's eyes stung. She hadn't slept well, her ribs ached, and the emotional whiplash of the past twelve hours was pressing down on her shoulders. But she forced herself to keep his gaze.
"Where is she now?"
"The police held her for questioning. They let her go this morning—there's no arrest yet while the DA reviews the footage." Marcus swallowed. "Her publicist is already spinning it. I saw a post on her Instagram an hour ago. Something about being 'the victim of a vicious attack' and asking for privacy."
"The woman kicked me in the ribs, and she's posting about being the victim."
"I know." Marcus's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Her lawyer called my phone. She's trying to build a narrative that you lost your temper. That you were jealous of her relationship with me."
Camille laughed, a sharp bitter sound. "Jealous of what? You and her were partners. Business partners. She told me you almost proposed to her."
"She told you—" Marcus's face went through a series of expressions: shock, horror, then something like exhaustion. "Camille, I never proposed to her. We were in business together for five years, and there were maybe two months where things got complicated, where I felt like maybe it could go somewhere. But I ended it before it did. I ended it before I ever met you."
"She said she saw the ring."
"She didn't." Marcus's voice was firm. "I had a ring—but it was my mother's. It was my grandmother's ring that I was planning to give to my sister when she got married. I kept it in my pocket because it needed to be sized, and I was supposed to drop it at the jeweler that weekend." He shook his head. "Eleanor saw the box and made up a story around it. She always did that—took a piece of reality and spun it into something that served her."
Camille studied him for a long moment. The baby's heartbeat filled the room, steady and patient, and she let it ground her.
"I believe you didn't propose to her," she said slowly. "But I need you to do something for me."
"Anything."
"I need you to tell her that. Publicly. I need you to make a statement about what you saw last night, about finding me on the floor with her standing over me. I need you to do that before her narrative takes hold."
Marcus nodded without hesitation. "I'll do it today. I'll call our PR team, I'll put out a statement, I'll do anything you need."
"Good." Camille let out a breath. "Because I'm not going to let her do to me what she did to that relationship. I'm not going to let her spin this into something I did."
"You and me both." He took a tentative step closer. "Can I—can I sit with you? Just sit?"
She hesitated for a moment. The image of his face, frozen in that terrible second of hesitation, was still sharp in her memory. But he was here now, and he was listening, and that had to count for something.
She nodded.
He crossed the room and sat carefully in the chair beside the bed, not reaching for her, just present. The baby's heartbeat filled the silence between them.
"She's dangerous," Camille said quietly. "More dangerous than either of us knew. I told her to leave, and she pushed me into the window. She said she wanted to make sure I never carried the baby."
Marcus's face was white. He didn't speak.
"I want her gone," Camille continued. "I want her name dragged through the mud. I want her to understand what it feels like to have everything you've built taken from you in a single night."
Marcus reached out, hesitantly, and took her hand. His fingers were cold, but they held her firmly.
"Then we'll do that. Together."
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