Chapter 7 - THE OTHER WOMAN AT MY DOOR
Camille looked nothing like the woman in the gold dress.
Her hair was tied back.
She wore jeans and an oversized sweater.
Her eyes were swollen.
For a moment, I felt the old instinct to help someone in distress.
Then I remembered her cheek against my husband's chest.
I stayed in the doorway.
“What do you want?”
She glanced at Megan.
“Can we talk privately?”
“No.”
Camille swallowed.
“Okay.”
She held out a flash drive.
“Owen asked me to delete these files.”
I didn't take it.
“What files?”
“Emails. Payment records. Draft agreements.”
“Why are you bringing them to me?”
“Because I'm scared.”
I looked at her.
“Of Owen?”
“Of what happens when everyone finds out.”
I folded my arms.
“Camille, you've spent eighteen months lying to your husband and helping mine deceive me. You'll forgive me if fear doesn't suddenly make you trustworthy.”
She began crying.
“I know.”
“Then go to your lawyer.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
“He told me to preserve everything.”
I nodded.
“Then follow his advice.”
She looked down at the drive.
“Owen says Ethan can make the documents disappear.”
That got my attention.
“What does he mean?”
“I don't know.”
“Camille.”
She looked up.
“Ethan created some of the agreements. Owen said if the original files were gone, nobody could prove when they were changed.”
I felt my stomach turn.
I wasn't going to investigate that myself.
I wasn't going to touch a drive whose contents I couldn't verify.
I took a breath.
“Give it to your attorney. Have them contact Allison Grant.”
Camille nodded.
Then she whispered, “Rebecca, I thought he loved me.”
The words were so absurd that I almost laughed.
Instead, I said, “So did I.”
She flinched.
I continued.
“You thought he loved you enough to leave me. I thought he loved me enough not to betray me. Apparently, we were both wrong about something.”
Camille covered her mouth.
“I'm sorry.”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“I believe you're sorry now.”
Her face lifted.
“But being sorry because the consequences arrived isn't the same as being sorry before you caused the damage.”
She nodded.
Then she left.
That night, I received an email from Lucas.
His attorney had filed for divorce.
He had also reported the questionable transactions involving his company to the appropriate authorities.
The email ended with one sentence.
I don't know how this ends, but I'm glad neither of us is pretending anymore.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I replied.
Me too.
The next morning, Allison called.
“Rebecca, we need to discuss the personal guarantee.”
I sat down.
“What personal guarantee?”
“There's a loan tied to Second Harvest.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred thousand dollars.”
My mouth went dry.
“Whose guarantee?”
She paused.
“Yours.”
I stared at the wall.
“I never signed a guarantee.”
“I know.”
“Can they come after my house?”
“Potentially, if the lender asserts it's valid. We're challenging the authorization and notifying the relevant parties.”
I closed my eyes.
My house.
The one Owen and I had bought after our second restaurant became profitable.
The house where we'd painted the kitchen yellow.
Where I'd planted peonies beside the porch.
Where we'd imagined raising children.
He had put it at risk.
May you like
Without telling me.
And suddenly, the affair seemed like only one piece of a much larger betrayal.
