Chapter 5 - Camille’s Desperation
The annual Metropol Design Gala was held at the Grand Conservatory—an opulent, iron-and-glass palace filled with rare orchids, towering palms, and the top two percent of the city's social and financial hierarchy.
Under normal circumstances, the Voss family reigned over this event like royalty. Eleanor served on the host committee, Camille used it to solicit wealthy clients for her boutique interior design firm, and Julian was customarily swarmed by adoring patrons.
Tonight, however, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
When the glass doors opened and I walked in on the arm of Arthur Vance, the orchestra seemed to drop an octave. Conversations died mid-sentence. I was wearing an architectural column gown of midnight-blue emerald silk, my grandmother’s simple art-deco diamond brooch pinned to my shoulder. My hair was swept into an elegant chignon, revealing the sharp, serene lines of a woman who had survived an execution and returned as the executioner.
Across the room, Eleanor was standing near the champagne fountain, surrounded only by Camille and a nervous-looking Richard Cross. Her usual court of social sycophants had evaporated; the social elite of this city smelled blood in the water, and nobody wanted to be caught standing near a sinking ship.
As Arthur stepped away to greet the Chairman of the Municipal Planning Commission, Camille saw her opening.
She marched across the marble floor, her silk gown rustling aggressively, her face twisted in a mixture of aristocratic outrage and raw desperation.
"You think you’re so clever, don't you?" Camille snarled, stopping less than two feet from me, keeping her voice low so the nearby patrons wouldn't overhear. "You think because you posted a few pathetic old emails online that you’ve won? You’re a parasite, Clara! You were a charity case Julian brought home, and you repaid my family by ruining our reputation!"
I took a slow sip of sparkling water, regarding her with the mild curiosity one might afford a buzzing fly.
"Your family didn't have a reputation, Camille," I replied smoothly. "You had a marketing budget and my intellectual labor. There’s a distinct difference."
"You listen to me," Camille hissed, stepping closer, her eyes blazing with malice. "My interior design firm has three multimillion-dollar contracts tied directly to Vanguard’s residential towers. If those projects freeze, I will be personally bankrupt! You are going to sign a public retraction tomorrow morning, or I will make sure you are blacklisted from every design firm on this continent!"
"With what influence, Camille?" I asked quietly. "Your firm hasn't produced an original layout in four years. Half of your residential staging concepts were adapted directly from my Framework Seven modular templates—which means your firm is also in direct violation of my federal copyright injunction."
Camille’s face drained of color, her sneer faltering into sudden, sheer panic. "You... you wouldn't dare."
"I don't need to dare," I whispered, tilting my head slightly. "Arthur’s legal team filed the audit requests for your studio at four o'clock this afternoon. If you’ve billed a single client using my spatial ratios, Camille, you won't just be bankrupt. You’ll be facing commercial grand larceny charges."
Camille’s hand flew to her throat. She looked around frantically, suddenly realizing that several prominent gallery directors and investors were watching her unravel with quiet amusement.
"You're a monster," Camille choked out, tears of humiliation finally spilling down her heavy makeup.
"No, Camille," I said, my voice dropping to a cool, unwavering whisper. "I was just Julian’s wife who didn't complain when you laughed into your wine while your mother threw me out of the house. Did you really think that wine wouldn't taste bitter eventually?"
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Camille turned on her heel and fled toward the service exits, choking on her sobs, while Eleanor watched from across the ballroom, her hands trembling so violently she had to set her champagne glass down to keep from dropping it.
***
