Chapter 2 - The Sentence From Eight Years Ago
Lucian wanted Camille moved to a secure suite.
Camille wanted answers.
Neither of them was accustomed to losing arguments.
“Upstairs,” Lucian said.
“No.”
“Camille.”
“Repeating my name does not turn it into an instruction.”
Nico coughed into his hand.
It sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Lucian ignored him.
“The mansion has just been breached.”
“And the person feeding information to whoever breached it may still be inside.”
“Exactly.”
“So locking me in a bedroom is a terrible investigative strategy.”
“This is not an investigation.”
Camille folded her arms.
“What is it?”
“Keeping you alive.”
“You can do two things at once.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed.
“Normally people stop arguing when armed men enter my house.”
“Normally your employees aren’t paid to correct you.”
“You are no longer employed.”
“Then I’m arguing for free.”
Nico turned away completely.
Lucian gave his brother a murderous look.
Camille should have been terrified.
Instead, some reckless part of her wanted to smile.
Maybe fear had simply exhausted itself.
Or maybe she had spent too many years allowing powerful people to define what happened to her.
Eight years ago, she had walked out of Avery & Hall with a cardboard box.
She would not walk away from Moretti House without understanding why somebody had followed her past here.
Lucian finally exhaled.
“Ten minutes.”
“Thirty.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twenty.”
His mouth flattened.
“Fine.”
Camille smiled.
“You negotiate beautifully.”
“I regret meeting you.”
“No, you don’t.”
His gaze held hers a second too long.
“No,” he said quietly. “Apparently I don’t.”
The words settled somewhere dangerous.
Camille turned away first.
They moved to Lucian’s study, a room lined with dark shelves and old photographs. Marco locked the doors and stationed security outside.
Nico sat on the edge of Lucian’s desk.
Camille remained standing.
Talking about Avery & Hall still made her feel twenty-four.
But she had spent eight years proving that twenty-four-year-old woman deserved better than what happened to her.
She could tell the story now.
“Avery & Hall was an image consulting company,” she began. “Not exactly etiquette. Mostly political clients, corporate executives, wealthy families.”
“Your first job?” Nico asked.
“My first serious one.”
“And Beatrice?”
“Beatrice was twenty-two. Her mother, Evelyn Hall, was one of the founders.”
Lucian leaned against the desk.
“What happened?”
Camille looked at him.
“I was good.”
Nico smiled faintly.
“I believe that.”
“So did Evelyn. At first.”
Camille had arrived at the firm on a temporary contract.
Six months later, she was handling clients junior consultants were not supposed to touch.
A governor’s wife requested her specifically.
A Fortune 500 CEO asked for Camille to lead his international protocol preparation.
She worked weekends.
Late nights.
Holidays.
But Evelyn Hall never offered her promotion.
“She said clients liked me because I was comforting.”
Lucian’s expression chilled.
Camille continued.
“Then I designed a full protocol strategy for a diplomatic foundation. Evelyn presented it as Beatrice’s work.”
Nico frowned.
“You complained?”
“I asked for credit.”
“And that’s when she said it?”
Camille nodded.
The meeting had four people.
Camille.
Evelyn.
Beatrice.
And Thomas Avery, Evelyn’s business partner.
Evelyn had closed the door.
Then she had explained the world to Camille.
Women like Beatrice, she said, opened doors through charm.
Women like Camille survived by making themselves indispensable.
There was no anger in Evelyn’s voice.
That had made it worse.
She sounded like a teacher correcting a child’s misunderstanding.
“Two days later,” Camille said, “a client complaint appeared in my file.”
“Real?” Lucian asked.
“No.”
“A week later?”
“Another.”
“And?”
“Three weeks later, I was fired for misconduct.”
Nico stared at her.
“What misconduct?”
“Supposedly leaking confidential client information.”
The irony hung heavily in the room.
Lucian understood first.
“You were framed for exactly what someone is doing now.”
“Yes.”
Marco had been silent near the bookshelves.
Now he spoke.
“What happened to Avery & Hall?”
“Thomas Avery left the firm a year later. Evelyn renamed it Hall International. Beatrice eventually became an event strategist.”
“For the Bellini Foundation,” Lucian said.
Camille nodded.
Beatrice Hall had become polished, respected, connected.
Camille had started over.
She took small clients.
Then larger ones.
She taught corporate dining seminars in hotel conference rooms with broken projectors.
She saved money.
Built a website herself.
Went viral after correcting a television host who mocked her weight during a live interview.
She did not insult him.
She simply smiled and asked whether he wanted etiquette training before continuing.
People loved it.
Clients came.
Camille Brooks Etiquette Consulting became real.
“I haven’t spoken to Beatrice in years,” she finished.
Lucian turned to Marco.
“Find Evelyn Hall.”
Marco began typing.
Camille caught something.
“Wait.”
She thought of yesterday.
The rehearsal.
Beatrice entering.
Her gold folder.
Her perfume.
The way she had looked at Camille.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“I don’t think Beatrice was shocked to see me here.”
Lucian’s gaze sharpened.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing strange.”
“What exactly?”
Camille closed her eyes, rebuilding the moment.
Beatrice had entered carrying sample place cards.
She had greeted Lucian.
Nico.
Then Camille.
“Still teaching people how to behave?”
At the time, Camille assumed it was an awkward joke.
Now it sounded different.
“She knew who I was before anyone introduced us.”
Nico frowned.
“That’s not necessarily—”
“No,” Camille said. “But then she told me I looked ‘established.’”
Lucian waited.
“She used to say that word sarcastically. Established. Whenever somebody she disliked gained weight or married rich.”
Nico’s expression lost its humor.
“That’s ugly.”
“Yes.”
A knock sounded.
Marco checked the camera feed, then opened the door.
One of his officers handed him a tablet.
Marco studied it.
“We found something.”
He set the tablet on the desk.
Security footage appeared.
Yesterday afternoon.
Dining room corridor.
Beatrice Hall walked toward the doors carrying her folder.
She entered.
Forty-eight seconds later, she left.
Then the video jumped.
Two minutes missing.
Marco replayed it.
The timestamp moved from 3:17 to 3:19.
Lucian’s voice became very quiet.
“Who can edit internal security?”
“Four people.”
“Names.”
Marco listed them.
Himself.
Lucian.
The head technician.
And Adrian Vale.
Nico sat straighter.
“Uncle Adrian?”
“He’s not our uncle,” Lucian said.
“Basically.”
“Not anymore.”
Camille looked between them.
“Who is Adrian Vale?”
Lucian did not answer immediately.
Marco did.
“Former adviser to Lucian’s father.”
Camille waited.
“And?”
Lucian’s face had changed.
“Adrian helped run Moretti businesses before my father died.”
“What happened?”
“I removed him.”
“Why?”
“He believed fear was more useful than loyalty.”
Camille arched an eyebrow.
“And you disagreed?”
Lucian looked at her.
“I’m aware of the irony.”
“He also controlled security systems?” she asked.
“For twenty years.”
Nico slid off the desk.
“But Adrian hasn’t been in this house for five years.”
Marco shook his head.
“His old access credentials were supposed to be deleted.”
“Supposed to be?”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“I’m checking.”
Lucian crossed toward the window.
Chicago glittered beyond the glass.
Camille recognized the posture.
He was calculating.
“You think Adrian and Beatrice are connected.”
“I think coincidences are lazy explanations.”
Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at Camille.
“We found Beatrice.”
“Where?”
“At the Bellini Hotel.”
Lucian immediately reached for his jacket.
Camille did the same.
“No.”
She turned.
Lucian was looking directly at her.
“What?”
“You stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Camille—”
“She knows me.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
“That is exactly why I need to be there.”
Lucian walked toward her.
He lowered his voice.
“You were followed outside your office.”
“I noticed.”
“Someone published details from your past.”
“I noticed that too.”
“My house was attacked.”
“I was present.”
“And somehow none of this has convinced you that you are in danger.”
Camille stared up at him.
“No. It has convinced me I’m tired of other people controlling what happens next.”
Something shifted in his expression.
She continued.
“Eight years ago, Evelyn Hall told everyone who I was. I let her because I didn’t have enough power to stop her. Then I spent eight years rebuilding.”
Her voice stayed steady.
“I’m not letting her daughter write the next chapter.”
Lucian studied her.
Then he did something unexpected.
He stepped aside.
“Marco gets final authority if the situation changes.”
Camille smiled faintly.
“Was that cooperation?”
“Don’t become accustomed to it.”
They left fifteen minutes later.
The Bellini Hotel had closed an entire floor for charity weekend planning.
Beatrice Hall waited in a private conference room.
She was elegant in cream silk.
Perfect blonde hair.
Perfect posture.
Perfect expression.
When Camille entered beside Lucian, Beatrice smiled.
“Camille.”
“Beatrice.”
“How dramatic.”
Camille took the chair opposite her.
Lucian remained standing.
Camille noticed Beatrice looked at him twice.
Not fearfully.
Assessing him.
“Someone is leaking private information,” Camille said.
Beatrice folded her hands.
“That sounds unfortunate.”
“The article used a sentence your mother said to me eight years ago.”
For the first time, Beatrice blinked.
Camille saw it.
So did Lucian.
“My mother said many things,” Beatrice replied.
“This one was behind a closed door.”
“Perhaps you told somebody.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then perhaps Thomas did.”
Camille leaned forward.
“You remember it.”
Beatrice smiled again.
Too late.
“You were there,” Camille said.
“I was present for countless meetings.”
“But you remember this one.”
Lucian moved toward the table.
Beatrice’s confidence faltered.
Only slightly.
“You may want to answer carefully,” he said.
Camille glanced at him.
“Lucian.”
He looked at her.
“Don’t intimidate the witness.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“That one.”
Nico, standing by the door, made a choking sound.
Beatrice stared between them.
Something strange crossed her expression.
Jealousy?
No.
Recognition.
Camille suddenly understood.
“This isn’t about Nico.”
Beatrice said nothing.
“It was never primarily about Nico.”
Silence.
“You wanted Lucian distracted.”
Beatrice’s smile disappeared.
Lucian’s phone vibrated.
Then Marco’s.
Then Nico’s.
Three devices at once.
Marco checked his screen.
“We have a problem.”
The Bellini Foundation’s entire guest list had been leaked online.
Names.
Schedules.
Private travel information.
And beside several names appeared accusations of bribery, affairs, hidden debts, secret alliances.
Some were obviously false.
Some looked dangerously believable.
At the bottom was a single message:
THE MORETTIS CANNOT PROTECT THEIR GUESTS.
Lucian looked at Beatrice.
She had gone pale.
Camille saw something else.
Genuine fear.
Beatrice whispered, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Every eye in the room turned toward her.
Camille leaned forward.
“What was supposed to happen?”
Beatrice’s hands began trembling.
“I was only supposed to embarrass Nico.”
Lucian’s voice was ice.
“For whom?”
Beatrice swallowed.
Then looked directly at Camille.
“My mother.”
Camille stared.
Beatrice shook her head rapidly.
“But she’s not in control anymore.”
“Who is?” Camille asked.
Beatrice looked toward the conference-room windows.
Her voice dropped.
“Adrian Vale.”
Lucian went still.
May you like
Beatrice whispered the next words.
“And if he knows I told you, none of us are leaving this hotel safely.”
