Morning light spilled across the curtains in warm gold streaks, and Camille stood at her mirror brushing out her hair, though her mind was still somewhere behind her, replaying the same handful of images on a loop — blood, headlights, a stranger’s eyes opening in the dark.
The bathroom door opened.
Kelly stepped out in a fluffy robe, towel wrapped around damp hair.
“I left you clothes on the bed,” Camille said, not turning around.
“Hurry — breakfast’s ready.”
Kelly eyed the folded outfit and rolled her eyes.
“So?”
“So Helen doesn’t like waiting.”
“Who cares what Helen likes.” Kelly grabbed the clothes anyway and headed for the dressing room, then paused halfway.
“Where’s the little brat, by the way?
Lauren?”
“Getting ready for work, probably.”
“Work?” Kelly’s face scrunched.
“We’re both due at the café early.
Mr Briggs won’t think twice before writing us up again.”
“Ugh, right.” Kelly groaned dramatically.
“I forgot you two still work at that shady little café.”
Camille caught her eyes in the mirror.
“Kelly.”
“What?”
“There’s nothing shady about it.”
“Cam, it’s in the middle of nowhere, half the customers show up in suits and sunglasses with faces that scream don’t ask, and every single one of them wants the private tables.”
“They just like privacy.”
“That is exactly my point.
Privacy is where all the suspicious stuff happens.”
“You watch too many crime shows.”
“Just admit I’m right.”
“I’m not admitting anything.”
“I am right.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Camille sighed, defeated, a small laugh slipping out despite herself.
“Fine.
Happy now?”
“Very.” Kelly disappeared into the dressing room with a triumphant little hum, and Camille shook her head at her own reflection, smiling in a way that felt almost normal — almost like last night hadn’t happened at all.
“I spoil you, you know that?” she called after her.
“You absolutely do,” Kelly shot back.
They came downstairs a few minutes later, the smell of breakfast drifting up to meet them.
In the dining room, Mr.
Wilson sat with the newspaper folded beside his plate, and across from him, Helen sipped her tea with the same practiced grace she used for everything, including cruelty.
“Well,” Helen said as they entered.
I was beginning to wonder if we’d be serving lunch instead of breakfast.”
“Morning to you too, Mrs.
Helen,” Kelly said, smile fixed firmly in place.
Helen didn’t bother answering.
They sat, and for a few minutes the only sound in the room was cutlery against porcelain — until Mr.
Wilson cleared his throat.
“Camille.”
She looked up, some old, tired part of her already bracing for what was coming.
“I’ve been thinking about yesterday.
I still believe you should come work at Wilson Group.”
“Dad—”
“Just hear me out.” He pressed on before she could stop him.
“I don’t like you out late at parties, then straight to that café every morning with no rest between.
If you worked with me, I wouldn’t have to worry so much.”
“We’ve had this conversation.”
“I know.”
“And my answer hasn’t changed.”
“Then let me open you a branch of your own,” he said, leaning forward.
“You’d run it.
Full authority.
It would be entirely yours.”
Kelly’s eyebrows shot up.
Camille set her fork down slowly, something tightening in her chest that had nothing to do with hunger.
“You’re still not listening to me.”
“Then help me understand.”
“I don’t want success handed to me, Dad.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
The table went quiet.
“I want to build something with my own hands.
I want to know that whatever I become, I actually earned — that it’s mine, not something you bought for me because you couldn’t stand not knowing where I was.”
He studied her for a long moment, something almost wounded flickering behind his eyes.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
“Maybe not.” She managed a small, tired smile.
“But I need to prove it to myself.”
Helen made a soft, unimpressed sound into her teacup.
“Stubbornness certainly runs in this family.”
Mr.
Wilson ignored her entirely.
“At least think it over.”
“I already have.” Camille pushed back her chair, the ache behind her ribs easing only slightly now that the conversation was over.
“Thank you for breakfast.
I should get going.”
Kelly stood too.
“Thank you for having me, Mr. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Wilson.”
“You’re always welcome here.” He smiled, warm in the way he only ever seemed to manage with people who weren’t his own daughter, and Kelly gave Helen a polite nod on her way past, which Helen returned with nothing more than a low hum.
Outside, they’d barely made it off the porch when a voice called after them.
“Camille, wait!”
Lauren jogged up, backpack strap sliding off one shoulder, breathless already.
“I thought you’d already left,” Camille said, laughing.
“I thought you had!” Lauren caught her breath.
“Thank God I caught you — I genuinely don’t think I could survive another one of Mr Briggs’s lectures today.”
“Better start running, then,” Kelly said.
“You’re already late.”
Lauren groaned.
“Please don’t remind me.”
Kelly checked the time and sighed, then pulled Camille into a tight, sudden hug — tighter than the moment really called for, like some part of her hadn’t quite let go of last night either.
“Try not to end up in another life-or-death situation today.
Please.”
“No promises,” Camille murmured into her shoulder.
Kelly hugged Lauren too, quick and easy, then headed for her BMW parked in the drive, waving once before she pulled away.
Camille and Lauren stood watching until the car disappeared past the gates, and only then did they turn toward the Wilson gate.
They were going to use the bus stop.
Nearly forty minutes later, the bus let them off along the quiet countryside road.
Maple Grove Café sat a short walk further on — small, weathered, tucked far enough from the city that most people never stumbled onto it by accident.
The wooden sign above the door creaked gently in the wind.
Beyond the white fence, the trees swayed, indifferent to anything happening anywhere else in the world.
Camille let her eyes rest on the building for a moment before they went in — the way she always did, without quite meaning to.
It was one of the only places left that still felt like her mother’s, as much as it was hers now.
Long before Briggs took over, the café had belonged to one of her mother’s closest friends, and she could still remember sitting by that exact window as a child, a slice of chocolate cake in front of her, listening to the two women laugh over coffee like nothing in the world could ever touch them.
The building had changed hands since.
That feeling never had.
It was probably the real reason she’d turned down her father’s offer again this morning, though she hadn’t said it out loud — some things you didn’t hand over, no matter how large the branch, no matter how much authority came attached.
Lauren glanced through the window at the wall clock and went pale.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“We’re late.
Again.”
They traded one horrified look before shoving through the door together, moving fast and low, hoping to slip behind the counter before anyone noticed.
One step.
Two.
Then—
“You’re late.”
Both girls froze mid-motion.
Mr.
Briggs stood near the counter, arms folded across his chest, his gaze settling on the two of them with the particular disappointment of a man who’d clearly rehearsed this exact moment in his head all morning.
Neither of them dared say a word.