“Excuse me?” she said, her eyebrows lifting.
“I said leave,” I repeated.
She took off her sunglasses, looking at me with disbelief.
“You do not mean that,” she said.
“I do,” I said. “And you need to go.”
“You are just upset,” she said, trying to reach for my hand.
“I am,” I agreed.
“So do not take it out on me,” she said, and I laughed.
“Who else should I take it out on?” I asked.
“Her,” Camille snapped. “She took your child.”
“She took Isabella somewhere safe,” I said.
“Safe from what? From you?” she asked, and I did not answer.
Camille stepped closer, her voice dropping.
“Leighton, look at me,” she said. “She is just punishing you, and this is an opportunity for us to stop hiding.”
I looked at her hand on my arm, and I saw the gold bracelet I had bought for her, the perfect nails, and the life I had built on lies.
“I do not want this,” I said.
“What?” she asked, her mouth opening slightly.
“I do not want us,” I said.
“You are just panicking,” she insisted.
“No, I am finally not,” I said, and I had never seen Camille speechless before.
Her face hardened into something sharp and unfamiliar as she glared at me.
“You think you can just end this?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You think you can use me for months, tell me you love me, and then throw me away because your wife embarrassed you?” she yelled.
“I lied to you too,” I said quietly.
She stared at me, uncomprehending.
“I lied when I said I would leave Sophie, and I lied when I said our life would be better,” I said, and she called me a coward.
“Yes, I am,” I said, and the admission seemed to frustrate her more than any denial.
“You are going to regret this,” she threatened.
“I already regret everything,” I said.
“No, not everything,” she whispered, and then she smiled.
It was a small, cruel, and almost pleased smile.
“There are things Sophie does not know,” she said, and she slipped her sunglasses back on before turning to walk away.
I watched her drive off, then ran to my laptop, but my inbox was empty. I refreshed it again and again until a new message appeared from Camille, containing only a video file. I hesitated, but my curiosity won, and I clicked on it. It opened in a hotel room, dark and dim, and I saw myself on the screen, drunk and speaking to the camera with my shirt half unbuttoned.
“I am telling you,” video me slurred. “Once the baby is older, I will make it happen.”
“Make what happen?” Camille’s voice asked from behind the camera.
“I will leave.”
“You promise?”
“For me?”
“For you.”
I watched myself laugh, and then Camille asked about Sophie, and I shrugged.
“She will be fine because she is stronger than she looks.”
“And the baby?”
I watched myself rub my face and say, “I do not know, babies do not remember anything anyway.”
I slammed the laptop shut, my breathing coming in ragged bursts as I realized what I had said. I had no memory of saying those words, but there it was, recorded and ready to destroy me. My phone buzzed again with a message from Camille: “Imagine how that sounds in court.”
I stared at the screen, and another message arrived: “Don’t make me angry, Leighton, and you do not get to ruin my life and crawl back to your wife.”
I felt something cold settle in my bones as I realized Sophie had escaped not only me but also a threat she had likely understood better than I had. I forwarded the email to myself, saved the video to a drive, and then called an attorney. I spoke to a family law expert who told me in a voice stripped of warmth to get representation immediately and stop contacting anyone.
The next afternoon, I sat across from Glenda Brown, a compact woman who seemed unimpressed by my misery. She reviewed the filing, the receipts, and watched the video, her face remaining entirely stoic.
