The hospital had called at dawn.
Camila had been awake already—hadn't slept, not really, not since the doctor first said the word dialysis and her stomach had dropped through the floor—so when the phone lit up with the hospital's number, she answered before the second ring.
"Miss Frost, we're moving Irene Powell to the transplant list."
Relief, short-lived. "That's good. That's—when?"
"Pending funding. The private-care pathway requires a deposit of four hundred thousand within the week. Full treatment, including post-surgery monitoring, totals one point two million."
The number hung in the air like a physical weight. Camila had done the math on the drive home from the consultation. Her jewelry shop was solvent but not that solvent. She had savings, but not that kind of savings. She had a boyfriend who said he'd always be there—but Derek worked for Gregory Frost, and every cent of his salary belonged to her adoptive father's company.
"I'll find the money."
She'd said it with the same flat certainty she used when explaining to clients that their custom piece could be ready by Christmas if they approved the design by Friday. As if pretending certainty made it true.
The hospital had asked for her decision by end of week.
That had been this morning. Now it was midnight, she was bone-tired, and the Frost mansion loomed ahead of her like a mausoleum—all dark stone and dark windows, the sort of house that didn't welcome you so much as swallow you.
Camila killed the engine of her beat-up Honda, the car that Victoria had called a charity case on wheels more times than Camila cared to count. She sat in the driveway for a long moment, the engine ticking as it cooled.
One point two million.
She could sell the shop. Liquidate her materials. Call in favors. Maybe scrape together three hundred thousand. Maybe.
But Irene had months, not years.
I'll find the money. She'd said it. Believed it. Now she had to make it true.
Camila pulled herself out of the car, her legs heavy, and let herself into the house through the side entrance—the one the staff used, the one she'd learned to use as a teenager when Pamela had made it clear that the front door wasn't for her.
The foyer was dark, the chandelier on a dimmer, the marble cold under her bare feet. She'd kicked off her heels in the car. Couldn't face the click of them on the stone, the sound of herself arriving like she belonged.
She was halfway to the stairs when she heard it.
A moan.
Not a loud one—muffled, bitten off, the kind of sound that was supposed to stay behind a closed door. But the house was still, and Camila's ears were sharp from years of learning to read the mood of the Frost household before she entered a room.
That's the guest room.
That's Victoria's voice.
Another sound: a man's grunt, low and straining, and the rhythmic creak of a bed frame.
Camila's hand found the banister. She held it like a lifeline, her knuckles white.
No. No, he wouldn't.
But she knew. The way you know before the doctor says the word. The way you know when a man stops looking at you, stops touching you, stops seeing you, and you tell yourself he's just tired, just stressed, just—
She climbed the stairs.
Not fast. Not slow. Deliberate, each foot placed with the care she used on her bench, setting a stone exactly right. She was still telling herself to stop. To turn around. To preserve whatever shred of dignity she had left.
Her feet kept moving.
The guest room door was ajar—just a crack, a sliver of golden light, but enough. Through it she could see the foot of the bed, the rumpled silk sheets, the tangle of limbs.
Derek's back. The muscles she'd traced a thousand times, now slick with sweat and moving in a rhythm she recognized. His hands gripping Victoria's hips. Victoria's legs wrapped around his waist, her red-painted toenails digging into the small of his back.
Camila stood in the dark hallway, a ghost at her own murder scene.
She could have walked away. Should have. The smart thing, the Camila thing, was to retreat, process, plan. But she was so tired of being smart. So fucking exhausted from taking the high road while everyone else took each other in the back seat.
"God, Derek—fuck me harder—don't stop."
Victoria's voice, high and breathy, the sound of someone who knew exactly how good they had it.
Camila's hand found the door.
She pushed.
The door swung open and banged against the wall, a crack like a gunshot. Derek froze. Victoria screamed—a real scream, not the theatrical one she'd been making—and scrambled to cover herself with a pillow.
"Jesus Christ, Camila!" Derek's face went the color of old cheese. He scrambled off Victoria, grabbed the first thing he could reach—a sheet—and held it over his groin like it could hide the evidence. "This isn't—it's not what it looks like."
"Not what it looks like?" Camila stepped into the room. Her voice was calm. She could hear herself speaking from very far away, the way she did when she was about to pass out. "Because it looks like my boyfriend's been balls-deep in my sister."
Victoria recovered faster than Derek. She yanked the pillow aside, letting the sheet fall to her waist, showing off her breasts with the casual confidence of someone who knew they were perfect. "Surprise, sis. Turns out your man prefers real women over ice princesses."
"Victoria, shut up—" Derek hissed.
"No, no, let her talk." Camila crossed her arms, nails digging into her own biceps. "She's been doing a lot of it, apparently. How long?"
Derek opened his mouth. Victoria beat him to it.
"Six months."
The number hit Camila in the chest like a physical blow. Six months. Half their relationship. Every late meeting. Every canceled dinner. Every I'm sorry, baby, work's a nightmare. All of it feeding this. This.
She looked at Victoria—her flushed skin, her satisfied smirk, the diamond earrings that Camila had designed for her birthday last year. Hand-crafted, Victoria, because you're my sister. She'd spent a week on those earrings, getting the setting exactly right.
"I've been at the hospital all day," Camila said, and her voice cracked on hospital, just a little. "Irene is dying. I called you three times, Derek. Three times. But you were busy."
"Camila, I swear, this was the first time—"
"Don't insult me." She stepped closer. The room smelled of sex and Victoria's cloying jasmine perfume. The sheets were tangled and damp. Derek still had a hickey on his chest—a purple bruise in the shape of Victoria's mouth. "I'm not stupid, Derek. I knew something was off. I just didn't want to believe you'd sink this low."
"Baby, please—she came after me. She wore those tight little skirts, she was always in my office, what was I supposed to do?"
"Keep your dick in your pants?"
Victoria laughed, a nasty sound. "Oh, please. Like you were giving him anything worth staying for. You know what he told me? That you're like fucking a mannequin. Just lies there, waiting for it to be over."
The words hit like a slap. Camila felt her face go hot, then cold. She turned to Derek, searching for denial, for anything.
Derek looked at the floor.
"Wow." Camila let out a breath, slow and steady. "Okay. Okay, so that's where we are."
She should leave. She knew she should leave. But her feet wouldn't move. And then Victoria opened her mouth again, and all the air left the room.
"I'm pregnant."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
"Twelve weeks," Victoria said, tracing her still-flat stomach with one red-tipped finger. "Daddy's going to be so pissed. I was supposed to save myself for that Blackwell creep. Oops."
"You're..." Derek's face went from cheese to chalk. "Victoria, you told me you were on the pill."
"I lied." Victoria shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "What, you think I was going to let you string me along forever? You needed a reason to ditch the ice queen."
Camila looked at Derek—at the man she'd been with for three years, the man she'd introduced to her family, the man she'd let inside her body and her life. And she saw him for what he was: a coward. A weak, selfish coward who'd rather fuck her sister than have the decency to break up with her.
"Congratulations," she said, her voice as flat as the stones on her workbench. "I hope it gets its father's spine."
She turned to walk out, because there was nothing left in this room for her. But before she could reach the door, the sound of footsteps in the hall stopped her.
Gregory Frost's voice: "What the devil is going on in here?"
And Pamela's, cooler and meaner: "I heard screaming. Victoria."
The door to the master bedroom had opened. Camila could see them in the hallway—both in matching silk robes, looking like a pair of displeased royalty. Gregory's face was already darkening. Pamela's was perfectly composed, a mask of concern that Camila had learned to see through at twelve.
"Everyone stay right there," Pamela said, stepping into the guest room. She took in the scene with clinical efficiency: Derek clutching a sheet, Victoria half-naked and triumphant on the bed, Camila standing like a statue by the door. "I see. Victoria, get dressed. Now."
"Mother, it's not what—"
"I don't care what it is. Get dressed."
Victoria scowled but slid off the bed, wrapping the sheet around herself. She passed Camila on the way to the closet, and for a moment, their eyes met.
I won, Victoria's expression said. What are you going to do about it?
"Derek," Gregory said, his voice carrying the weight of a man used to being obeyed, "you will be in my study in ten minutes. Dressed and ready to explain yourself."
"Sir, I can—"
"Ten minutes."
Derek grabbed his pants from the floor and fled.
Camila stayed by the door. She should leave. She could still leave. But she knew Pamela, and she knew that look in her eye—the calculating gleam that meant Camila was about to be used as a solution to a problem she hadn't created.
"Close the door," Pamela said.
Camila didn't move.
"I said close the door." Pamela's voice sharpened. "This concerns you, Camila. Sit down."
"I'll stand."
"Fine." Pamela smoothed her robe, composing herself. "The situation is simple. Victoria was to marry Adrian Blackwell as part of the Blackwell-Frost merger. That contract was signed fourteen months ago. The Blackwells expect a Frost daughter. They have been promised a Frost daughter."
"So send Victoria," Camila said. "Pregnant or not."
"Adrian Blackwell is not a fool. If the child is not his—and it is clearly not his—the Blackwells will see it as a breach of contract. The merger will collapse."
"That doesn't sound like my problem."
"Irene Powell's medical bills sound like your problem." Pamela smiled, and Camila felt the trap close around her. "We both know you can't afford her treatment. One point two million is well beyond your means. But it is a rounding error in the Frost household accounts."
The floor tilted under Camila's feet. "You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering you a solution. The contract specifies a Frost daughter. It does not specify which one. You are a Frost, legally. You will take Victoria's place. You will marry Adrian Blackwell, fulfill the terms of the merger, and in exchange, I will personally ensure that Irene Powell receives the best care money can buy."
"Mother, you can't be serious!" Victoria emerged from the closet in a silk robe, her face twisted with outrage. "You want to send her? She's not even a real Frost!"
"She is a Frost on paper, and that is all the Blackwells require." Pamela didn't look at Victoria. Her eyes were locked on Camila. "Well? Do we have a deal?"
Camila's mind was a blur of calculations. One point two million. A marriage of convenience—or inconvenience, depending on perspective—to a man she'd never met. A man whose reputation, from what little she'd heard, was not stellar. A wastrel, Gregory had called him. An idler.
But Irene's life was worth more than her own dignity.
"I want it in writing," Camila said, her voice steady despite the shaking in her hands. "A contract. Irene's full treatment fund, released up front—not in installments, not contingent on anything. And I want my own apartment after the wedding. I won't live under the same roof as her." She nodded at Victoria.
"The first tranche will be wired within seventy-two hours of the ceremony," Pamela said.
"That's not what I said."
"It's what I'm offering." Pamela's voice didn't waver. "And I want Derek out of this house. Tonight. He's not welcome here anymore."
"He will be gone within the hour," Gregory said.
"Then I accept."
Victoria made a sound of disgust. "Unbelievable. You're just going to let her take my life?"
"You are the one who threw it away," Pamela said coldly. "Now get out of my sight. Camila, my office, first thing in the morning. We'll finalize the papers by noon."
The meeting was over. Pamela and Gregory swept out of the room, leaving Camila alone with Victoria.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Victoria laughed. "You think you've won something, don't you? Marrying Adrian Blackwell isn't a prize. He's a nobody. A failure. The Blackwells can barely stand to show his face in public. You're being fed to the family embarrassment."
"At least I'm being fed something." Camila turned to leave. "I hope the sex was worth it, Victoria. Because you just traded your freedom for a baby and a broken engagement."
"Better broken engagement than being stuck with a loser."
"We'll see."
Camila walked out.
She made it to her room, closed the door, and locked it. Then she stood in the dark, her back against the wood, and let her knees give out.
She didn't cry. She'd learned not to. Crying didn't pay bills. Crying didn't save dying housekeepers. Crying just made your eyes red and your voice weak, and Camila couldn't afford to be weak.
She sat on the floor for a long time, staring at the pattern on the rug, counting the threads in the weave.
Marry Adrian Blackwell.
She didn't know anything about him. A few grainy photos from charity events—standing behind his family, never the center of attention. A mention in a gossip column once: Adrian Blackwell, the invisible heir, seen leaving a club at 3 AM. Nothing about businesses he'd run or deals he'd made. Nothing that suggested he was anything but a placeholder—the spare son the Blackwells kept around out of obligation, not affection.
Maybe they'd both be pawns.
Maybe they'd be allies.
Maybe he'd be worse than Derek.
She pulled out her phone and typed his name: Adrian Blackwell.
The search results were sparse. A LinkedIn profile with no photo and no job history. A few articles mentioning his family's philanthropy, his name trailing behind his family's. A single clear photo from a gala, grainy, taken from across the room. In it, he was standing alone against a wall, holding a glass of champagne, his face partially obscured by shadows—one hand raised as if waving off the lens. He was tall—that much she could tell—wearing a black suit that didn't fit quite right. His expression was unreadable.
The invisible heir.
The tabloid piece was three paragraphs. Adrian Blackwell, 32, the only son of the late Elena Prescott Blackwell, has largely avoided the public profile that accompanies his family's holdings. Described by associates as "unserious" and by one unnamed source as "a waste of a good last name," Blackwell has no known business affiliations, no board seats, and no visible income beyond a trust fund he appears to be draining at a recreational pace.
Camila stared at the photo for a long time, trying to read something into it. Trying to find a reason for hope.
She couldn't find anything.
She put the phone down, lay back on the floor, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would become engaged to a stranger.
Tonight, she mourned. Not Derek—he'd been dead to her the moment she heard that first moan. But the future she'd imagined. The life she'd thought she was building. The hope that she could ever be more than a tool the Frosts used when convenient.
For Irene, she told herself. This is for Irene.
But as she drifted into a restless, dreamless sleep, a voice in the back of her mind whispered: You're going to pay for this.
She just didn't know how.
