SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan)

Chapter 107

The restaurant occupied the entire top floor of a Midtown hotel, overlooking Central Park. Camille arrived fifteen

minutes early, a tactic Victoria

had taught her, secure the

position of power, choose your seat, control the encounter from the first moment.

She selected a corner table with her back to the wall, facing both elevators. The

host seated her with a professional smile, leaving her alone with her thoughts and a sparkling water she wouldn't

drink.

Camille smoothed her navy dress, a simple design that concealed the tension in her body. The silver rose

pendant Alexander had returned to her hung at her throat, a reminder of who she had been before Rose's

betrayal, before Victoria's transformation.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Alexander: *Everything okay?*

She typed: *They haven't arrived yet.*

*I'm in the lobby if you need me.*

A small smile touched her lips. Alexander

hadn't questioned her decision to face her parents alone, but he'd

insisted on accompanying her to the hotel. Her shield, waiting in the background.

The elevator doors opened, and Camille's smile

vanished. Her stomach tightened into a knot.

Margaret and Richard Lewis stepped into the restaurant, looking smaller than she remembered. Her mother

scanned the space, hands clutched around

her purse. Her father stood slightly behind, his shoulders rounded in a way Camille had never seen before.

They spotted her. Hesitated. Then walked toward her table with careful steps.

Camille did not stand. Did not smile. Did not offer her cheek for the kiss her mother Teaned in to give before

thinking better of it.

"Camille," Margaret said, the ncatching in her throat. "Thank you for, for agreeing

to meet us."

"Please," Richard gestured to the chairs. "May we sit?"

Camille nodded, her face revealing nothing. Victoria would have been proud.

They settled awkwardly, all the social

graces they'd drilled into her now useless in the face of their broken relationship.

"You look well," her mother tried. "Healthy."

"I am," Camille kept her voice neutral. "Victoria takes good care of

her investments."

Her mother flinched at the word "investments." Her father cleared his throat.

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Chapter 107

"Camille, we..." Richard began.

"Why did you want to meet?" Camille cut him off. Direct. No small talk.

Her parents exchanged glances. Margaret nodded slightly, and Richard reached down for a leather satchel he'd

placed beside his chair. He removed a flat package wrapped in blue cloth and placed it on the tab "We wanted to

give you these," he said. "They're yours. They've always been

yours."

Camille didn't touch the package. "What is it?"

Margaret's eyes filled with tears. "Your journals. From when you were a girl. Before... Before Rose came."

The words hit Camille like a physical blow. Her journals. The ones

Rose had found

and read aloud mockingly. The ones that had disappeared after her "accident."

"You kept them?" Camille couldn't hide her surprise.

"We found them when we were cleaning out your old room," Richard

explained. "After your... after the news about

your car in the river. We couldn't bear to throw them away."

Camille looked at the package, still not touching it. "And now

you want to return them because you know I'm alive."

"No," Margaret shook her head, a tear spilling down her

cheek. "We want to return them

because we've read them. All of them. And we..." Her voice broke completely.

Richard covered his wife's hand with his own.

"We failed you, Camille. In ways we're only beginning to understand. Your journals, they show a pattern we were

tod blind to

see."

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A server approached, sensing the tension. Camille requested water for

the table and said they weren't ready to order.

When the server left, she reached for the package, unwrapping it with careful fingers. Inside

lay five notebooks of different colors and sizes. Her childhood handwriting filled their pages.

"What pattern?" Camille asked, though she already knew.

Margaret

wiped her tears. "How Rose manipulated all of us. How we always took her side. How we...

punished you for things that weren't your fault."

"Read the green one," Richard said softly. "Page twenty-three."

Camille hesitated, then opened the small green notebook. Her thirteen-year-

old self had written:

*Mom yelled atagain for making Rose feel unwelcome. But

| DIDN'T. | asked her to cto the movies withand Jenna, and she said yes,

and then she didn't show up. And when | got home, she told Mom I left without her on purpose. Why doesn't

Mom ever believe me? Rose smiled when Mom sentto rny

room. She SMILED. Like she PLANNED it.*

The memory flooded back, waiting in the lobby for Rose, who never came. The

sick feeling knowing what would happen

when she got home. The helplessness of not being believed.

"There are dozens of entries like that," Margaret

said, her voice hollow with regret. "So many times we took Rose's word over yours."

Camille closed the journal. "Why are you showingthis now?"

"Because we owe you the truth," Richard said. "That we see

it now. What Rose did. What we allowed her to do."

"And we want to apologize," Margaret added. "Not because we expect forgiveness. We don't deserve that. But

because

you deserve to hear it."

Camille stared at them, these strangers who shared her blood. She had imagined

this moment, confronting them, making them suffer for their betrayal, walking away

triumphant. Victoria had trained her for that scenario.

But Victoria hadn't prepared her for genuine remorse, for her proud father with reddened eyes, for

her perfectly composed mother reduced to tears.

"You chose her," Camille said, harder than she intended. "When | told you about her affair with Stefan. When |

needed you most. You chose her."

"Yes," Richard admitted. "And it will haunt us for the rest of our lives."

"We believed what we wanted to

believe," Margaret added. "That our perfect family couldn't

possibly hide such ugly truths. That our adopted daughter

couldn't be capable of such calculation."

"And then she tried to kill me," Camille said flatly.

Her parents flinched.

"Yes," Margaret whispered. "And we didn't know. Not until it was too late."

"We're not asking for forgiveness, Richard said. "Or for

you to cback to us. We know that's not possible."

"What do you want, then?" Camille asked, steadier than she felt.

Margaret reached across the

table, stopping just short of touching Camille's hand. Just... to know you. In whatever way you'll allow. On

your terms."

"To be whatever you'll permit us to be in your life," Richard

added. “Even if it's just distant acquaintances who meet for coffee once a year.”

Camille looked down at the journals. The tangible evidence of her childhood suffering, preserved by the very

people who had failed to protect her from it.

"I don't know if | can do that," she said honestly.

"We understand," Margaret nodded, drawing back her hand. "The journals are yours regardless. No strings

attached."

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Chapter 107

A strange feeling washed over Camille, not quite forgiveness, but something adjacent to it. Recognition, perhaps,

that her parents were as human and flawed as she was. That Rose had manipulated them too, in her way.

"I need time," Camille said finally. "This isn't something | can decide today."

Hope flickered in her mother's eyes, fragile, cautious hope. "Of

course. Take all the tyou need."

"But," Camille continued, "I could perhaps... meet occasionally. Not at

the house. Not with Rose." Her voice hardened on her sister's name. "Neutral

ground, like this. Just to talk."

The relief on her parents’ faces was painful to witness. It spoke of months

of grief, of regret, of the terrible belief that their daughter was dead, and then

the equally terrible knowledge that she had survived only to rightfully

despise them.

"Thank you," Richard said, his voice rough with emotion. "That's more than we dared hope for."

They ordered food mechanically, none

of them particularly interested in eating. As her

parents engaged with the server, Camille studied them with new eyes. They had aged years in the months since

she'd left. Gray dominated her father's

hair now. Lines had deepened around her mother's mouth.

When the

server left, a silence fell over the table, the uncomfortable silence of people who once knew everything about

each other and now were nearly strangers.

"We saw the news about the Phoenix Grid," her father

said finally, grasping for neutral territory. "It's an extraordinary project."

"Yes, it is." Camille allowed herself a small bit of pride. “It will transform the city's power

infrastructure completely."

"Are you... happy, Camille?" her mother asked suddenly, the question

so direct that it caught Camille off guard. "With Victoria? With this new life?"

Camille considered the question, not allowing

herself the easy lie. "I'm... becoming who | need to be. Happiness wasn't the goal at first. Survival was. Then

justice."

"And now?" Richard asked quietly.

An image of Alexander

flashed in Camille's mind, his smile, his steady presence, the way

he looked at her as if seeing all of

her. "Now, there might be room for more than that."

Margaret nodded, understanding something in Camille's tone. "I'm

glad. You deserve that. You always did."

They

ate in awkward silence. When the meal ended, they stood together, the moment of parting equally awkward.

"May I..." Margaret began hesitantly, "may | hug you? Just once?"

Camille hesitated, then gave a small nod. Her mother's arms went around

her, familiar yet strange, the scent of her perfunleashing a flood of

memories both good and painful. The embrace was

brief, slightly stiff, but genuine.

Richard didn't ask for a hug, respecting the boundaries Camille had established. "Take care of yourself," he said

simply. "We're here

if... when you're ready."

Camille watched them walk to the elevator, looking smaller and more fragile than the parents who had once

loomed so large in her life. As the doors

closed behind them, she sat back down, her hands trembling slightly as

she reached for the journals.

She opened the green one again, flipping through pages of her

younger self's handwriting. Pain and joy and ordinary days captured in

a child's words.

Her phone buzzed. Alexander: *How did it go?*

Camille stared at the text, unsure how to answer. Not well. Not badly. Something in

between.

*They brought my childhood journals,* she typed.

Three dots appeared immediately, then: *Are you okay?*

The question lingered on her screen. Was she? The meeting had opened

old wounds, but something else too,ca tiny crack in the wall she'd built around her

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heart. Not forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But acknowledgment, at least, that healing might someday be

possible.

*| think | will be, * she replied finally. *Coming down now.*

Camille gathered the journals, each one a piece of her past

she'd thought lost forever. As she rode the elevator

down, she felt strangely lighter, as if she'd set down a burden she hadn't realized she was

carrying.

She'd expected to feel triumph in facing her parents, in showing

them the powerful woman she'd become

without them. Instead, she felt something more complicated, grief for what had

been lost, relief at the truth finally being acknowledged, and a tiny, cautious seed of possibility for a different

future than the one Victoria had planned.

Alexander

waited in the lobby, his face lighting up when he saw her. He didn't ask questions, simply offered his hand.

Camille took

it, feeling its strength and steadiness.

"Let's go home," she said.

But as they walked out into the bright afternoon sun, Camille wondered, with

Victoria's mansion on one side and her parents’ house on the other, where home

really was. And if, someday, she might build one that was truly her own.

Camille hesitated, then gave a small nod. Her mother's arms

went around her, familiar yet strange, the scent of her

perfunleashing a flood of memories both good and painful. The embrace was brief, slightly

stiff, but genuine.

Richard didn't ask for a hug, respecting the boundaries Camille had

established. "Take care of yourself," he said simply. "We're here if... when you're ready."

Camille watched them walk to the elevator, looking smaller and more fragile than

the parents who had once loomed so large in her life. As the doors closed behind them, she sat back down, her

hands

trembling slightly as she reached for the journals.

She opened the green one again, flipping through pages of her

younger self's handwriting. Pain and joy and ordinary days captured in a child's words.

Her phone buzzed. Alexander: *How did it go?*

Camille stared at the text, unsure how to answer. Not well. Not badly. Something in between.

*They brought my childhood journals,* she typed.

Three dots appeared immediately, then: *Are you okay?*

The question lingered on her screen. Was she? The meeting had

opened old wounds, but something else too,ca tiny crack in the wall she'd built around her heart. Not

forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But acknowledgment, at least, that

healing might someday be possible.

*| think | will be, * she replied finally. *Coming down now.*

Camille gathered the journals, each one a piece of her past she'd thought

lost forever. As she rode the

elevator down, she felt strangely lighter, as if she'd set down a

burden she hadn't realized she was carrying.

She'd expected to feel triumph in facing her parents, in showing them

the powerful woman she'd

becwithout them. Instead, she felt something more complicated, grief

for what had been lost, relief at the

truth finally being acknowledged, and a tiny, cautious seed of possibility for a different future than the one

Victoria had

planned.

Alexander waited in the lobby, his face lighting up when he saw her. He didn't

ask questions, simply offered his hand. Camille took it, feeling

its strength and steadiness.

"Let's go home," she said.

But as they walked out into the bright afternoon sun, Camille wondered, with

Victoria's mansion on one side and her parents' house on

the other, where hreally was. And if, someday, she might build one that was

truly her own.