Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO THOUGHT SHE HAD WON
Camille called me Saturday morning.
I was sitting at Megan's kitchen table with a cup of coffee I hadn't touched.
Her name appeared on the screen.
For a moment, I considered ignoring it.
Then I answered.
“Rebecca.”
Her voice sounded small.
“I know you probably hate me.”
I looked out the window.
“Is that why you called?”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For sleeping with my husband or for trying to take my company?”
Silence.
Then she whispered, “Owen told you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Rebecca, it's not what you think.”
I almost smiled.
Apparently, the two of them had rehearsed the same sentence.
“Camille, I'm going to ask you one question.”
“Okay.”
“Did you know I hadn't approved the sale?”
She didn't answer.
“Camille.”
“Owen said you were planning to step away.”
“Did he?”
“He said you wanted to return to nursing.”
I felt my throat tighten.
I'd mentioned returning to nursing once.
One night, after an exhausting fourteen-hour day resolving staffing problems, I told Owen I missed the hospital.
I missed helping people directly.
I missed feeling that my work mattered.
He kissed my forehead and said, “Maybe someday.”
Apparently, he'd turned that conversation into permission to erase me.
“Did he tell you I agreed to sell my shares?”
Camille hesitated.
“He said the paperwork was handled.”
“That's not what I asked.”
She sighed.
“Rebecca, you have to understand something. Owen and I have known each other since we were nineteen.”
There it was.
The history.
The sacred childhood memories.
The implication that eleven years of marriage somehow counted less than three years of college romance.
“And?” I asked.
“We never really got closure.”
I stared at my coffee.
“Closure?”
“Yes.”
“Camille, you married someone else.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside your husband while he worked on our restaurants.”
“I know.”
“You came to my home for dinner.”
Her breathing changed.
“You made a point of complimenting the dining room table,” I continued. “You asked where I bought the candles. You sat across from me and talked about how lucky I was.”
“Rebecca—”
“Were you sleeping with Owen then?”
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
“How long?”
“Please don't make me answer that.”
“How long?”
“Eighteen months.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Eighteen months.
Not seven hotel stays.
Not a summer mistake.
A year and a half of carefully arranged lies.
I thought about Christmas.
Thanksgiving.
My birthday.
Our anniversary.
All those nights Owen had come home tired and told me business was stressful.
I whispered, “You had dinner in my house.”
Camille began crying.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“You don't get to say that after eighteen months.”
She was quiet.
Then her voice changed.
“Look, Rebecca, I know you're angry, but you should understand that Owen hasn't been happy for a long time.”
I felt something inside me settle.
There was the woman beneath the apology.
The one who believed she'd won.
“Then he should have told me.”
“He didn't want to hurt you.”
“He was willing to steal from me.”
“That's not fair.”
I laughed.
“Fair?”
“Second Harvest isn't stealing anything. Owen built those restaurants.”
I looked at the photographs on Megan's refrigerator.
Her children at the beach.
Her husband holding a birthday cake.
A family built from ordinary moments.
“Camille, when Owen and I opened our first restaurant, he didn't know how to calculate payroll taxes.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“I worked nights to keep us solvent. I negotiated our leases. I handled licensing, vendors, insurance, and financing.”
“He was the chef.”
“Yes,” I said. “And I never tried to take that away from him.”
She was silent.
Then she said, “Maybe you should accept that marriages change.”
I stood.
“Maybe you should accept that signatures have legal consequences.”
I ended the call.
Ten minutes later, Allison called.
“We filed for emergency relief.”
“Will it stop Monday's closing?”
“The judge has scheduled a hearing. We have strong grounds to challenge the transaction, but I won't promise an outcome before the court rules.”
I appreciated that.
After forty-eight hours of lies, honesty felt almost luxurious.
At noon, Lucas sent me a message.
Can we meet? I found something else.
We met at a quiet diner in Delafield.
He looked exhausted.
Dark circles beneath his eyes.
Wedding ring still on his finger.
He placed a folder between us.
“My accountant traced the construction payments.”
I opened it.
The invoices looked familiar.
Restaurant maintenance.
Equipment installation.
Emergency repairs.
But several referenced addresses where we had never operated.
“Who submitted these?” I asked.
“Camille.”
I looked up.
“She has access to your accounting system?”
“She handled some administrative work while I was expanding.”
My stomach tightened.
“She used both businesses.”
Lucas nodded.
“I think so.”
“Where did the money go?”
He pointed to a bank transfer.
Second Harvest Hospitality.
I stared at the page.
Then another detail caught my attention.
A recurring payment of $8,750.
Every month.
For fourteen months.
“What is this?”
Lucas leaned closer.
“Consulting fees.”
“To whom?”
“An entity called Mercer Strategic Advisors.”
I froze.
“Mercer?”
Lucas nodded.
“Any connection to Ethan Mercer?”
The groom.
Owen's college roommate.
The man whose wedding had become the scene of our humiliation.
I slowly closed the folder.
“Ethan isn't a consultant.”
“What does he do?”
“He's a commercial real estate attorney.”
May you like
Lucas stared at me.
And suddenly, the betrayal had a fifth name.
