Chapter 4

STEFAN’S POINT OF VIEW

The scotch burned going down, but I poured another anyway. My third? Fourth? I’d lost count somewhere between signing the divorce papers and watching Camille walk away. Our wedding photo still sat on my desk, mocking me—Camille’s genuine smile, my distracted eyes already looking past her, always searching for Rose.

Rose. Even her name felt like a betrayal now.

My phone lit up with another message: “Darling, stop drinking and come over. We should celebrate.” Celebrate? As if we hadn’t just destroyed someone who loved us, someone who’d given me three years of devotion I never deserved. The memory hit me like a punch to the gut.

Camille’s voice, small and uncertain, called out, “Stefan? Did I do something wrong?”

I looked up from my laptop, irritated by the interruption. She stood in the doorway of my home office, holding a plate of something that smelled divine. “I made that pasta you mentioned,” she said, her eyes hopeful. “The one with truffles? Rose gave me the recipe…”

Of course, she had. Rose had made that pasta for me in Rome, years ago. Back when we were…whatever we were.

“I’m busy,” I said, not even glancing at the plate. “Just leave it.”

“Oh.” A pause. “It’s just, you’ve been working late all week, and I thought…”

“Camille,” I snapped, the anger misdirected. “I said I’m busy.”

She left the plate and disappeared, quiet as always. The pasta remained untouched until morning, a perfect replica of a memory belonging to another woman.

I hurled my glass at the wall, watching the crystal shatter like the life I’d built on lies. God, I’d been cruel—not just at the end, but throughout our marriage. Every missed dinner, every forgotten anniversary, every time I’d chosen work over her, all excuses to avoid the guilt of wanting her sister.

My phone buzzed. It was Mother. “Darling, I just heard from Rose. Are you alright? Do you need anything? I always said Camille wasn’t suited for our family…”

I silenced the phone, another painful memory resurfacing.

Rose’s voice was gentle as she poured me another drink. We were alone in my office after another disastrous family dinner. “She’s trying so hard, Stefan,” she said. “Maybe if you gave her more guidance…”

“Like you did?” The bitterness escaped me. “Teaching her all the ways to be perfect?”

Rose laughed, a practiced, musical sound. Everything about her felt practiced. “Are you saying you preferred me imperfect?”

The air crackled with unspoken history. Four years of passion and plans, ended by her sudden departure to London. Or so she’d claimed.

“Why did you really leave?” The question slipped out, fueled by whiskey and old pain.

“You know why.” She touched my cheek, a familiar and forbidden gesture. “Camille needed a chance at happiness. We both agreed…”

Had we? I couldn’t remember. Everything from that time felt hazy, manipulated, like watching a play where I’d forgotten my lines.

“She loves you,” Rose whispered, too close. “More than I ever could.” But her eyes said something different. They always had.

Another memory surfaced, this one from last week, the moment everything changed.

Camille’s smile was bright, genuine. Always so damn genuine. “I made your favorite breakfast,” she said. “Happy anniversary.” The divorce papers burned in my briefcase, Rose’s perfume still clinging to my clothes from our late-night “meeting.”

“I can’t,” I said, grabbing my keys, avoiding her eyes. “Early meeting.”

“Oh.” Her voice cracked. “Will you be home for dinner? I thought we could…”

“Don’t wait up.”

I spent that evening with Rose, planning how to break the news. She wore the same perfume she’d worn in Rome, all those years ago.

“It’s kinder this way,” she’d said, stroking my hair. “A clean break. Camille will understand eventually.”

Would she? The look in her eyes when she’d seen Rose’s photo…

My office door opened, startling me. Mother stood there, perfectly coiffed, even at midnight. “Really, darling. Drinking alone in the dark?”

“Not now, Mother.”

She surveyed the broken glass with disapproval. “Rose is worried about you. We all are.”

“Worried?” I laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “Like you were worried about Camille all these years?”

“That girl was never right for you.” Mother’s voice hardened. “Rose, on the other hand…”

“Stop.” I stood, unsteady. “Just… stop.”

“Stefan Rodriguez, you will not speak to me that way. I raised you better…”

“Did you?” The words exploded. “You raised me to what? String along a woman who loved me while pining for her sister? To tear her down at every opportunity?”

Mother recoiled, shocked. In twenty-eight years, I’d never raised my voice to her.

“Everything she did was wrong, wasn’t it?” I continued, emboldened by the scotch. “Her clothes, her manners, her cooking. Nothing was ever good enough. But Rose… Rose was perfect.”

“Because she understands our world! She…”

“She understands manipulation.” The truth hit me like a freight train. “She played us all. You, me, Camille…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mother straightened her designer jacket. “Rose loves you. She always has.”

Had she? Or had she loved the game more? I remembered the cold calculation in her eyes when she’d orchestrated our “chance” meetings after returning from London. The way she’d encouraged Camille’s insecurities while playing the supportive sister. Even our reunion two months ago felt staged—the charity gala, Camille conveniently “sick,” Rose in that dress I’d loved in Rome…

“Mother,” I said, sinking back into my chair, exhausted. “Please leave.”

“Stefan…”

“Go. Tell Rose… tell her…” What? That I was sorry? That I finally saw through her perfect mask? That I’d destroyed my marriage for a fantasy she’d carefully crafted?

Mother left, her disappointment heavy in the air, like expensive perfume. Like Rose’s perfume. Like all the artificial, manipulated pieces of this life I’d chosen.

My phone lit up. Rose again: “Darling, stop being dramatic. Come home. To me.”

Home.

I looked around my office, at the shattered glass and scattered papers. At Camille’s wedding photo, her genuine smile now an accusation.

What had I done?