Chapter 5 - THE MISTRESS WHO CAME TO MY OFFICE
Camille arrived at my studio three days later.
I had moved my design work into a small building in Atlanta's Old Fourth Ward.
The windows were tall.
The floors were concrete.
And every wall was covered with sketches.
It was the first place I had ever worked where Hudson hadn't insisted on hanging his own portrait.
Camille stood in the doorway wearing a pale pink maternity dress.
She looked exhausted.
“Can we talk?”
I hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
She entered slowly.
Her eyes moved across the drawings.
“You made all of these?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“Hudson told me he designed everything.”
I almost laughed.
“I'm sure he did.”
Camille lowered herself into a chair.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
“I didn't know you owned the company.”
I stared.
“You knew he was married.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“Then you knew enough.”
She looked down.
“I thought he was leaving you.”
I folded my arms.
“He told you that?”
She nodded.
“He said your marriage was over. That you were staying together for appearances.”
I felt an old, familiar pain.
Hudson had used the same phrase when explaining why he needed me at investor events.
Appearances matter, Serena.
Camille wiped her eyes.
“He said you weren't interested in having children.”
I went still.
For three years, Hudson and I had been trying to conceive.
There had been appointments.
Tests.
Disappointments.
A miscarriage at eleven weeks that I had barely survived emotionally.
Hudson knew all of it.
And he had apparently turned my grief into an excuse for his affair.
I looked away.
Camille noticed.
“Oh, God.”
I took a breath.
“You need to leave.”
She began crying.
“Serena—”
“Please.”
She stood.
At the door, she turned.
“There's something else.”
I looked at her.
“Hudson told me he was selling the company.”
My heart tightened.
“To whom?”
She hesitated.
“A group from New York.”
“What group?”
“I don't know.”
She looked frightened.
“But he said once the sale closed, nobody would be able to take anything back.”
I stared at her.
Then asked:
“When?”
May you like
Camille swallowed.
“Next Friday.”
