I cross the room and open the door.
It isn’t him.
It’s Camille.
She stands there in a pale silk robe with her hair brushed smooth over one shoulder, looking composed in that brittle way women do when they’re angry enough to skip sleep. There’s a phone in her hand.
For a second I just stare at her.
Then I say, “What do you want?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She steps into the room like she’s been invited, and before I can stop her she holds the phone up between us.
On the screen is a photo.
Viktor carrying me upstairs.
My stomach drops.
The image is grainy, clearly taken from a distance, probably from the far end of the hall or the staircase landing. But it’s clear enough. His face in profile. My arms around his shoulders. The angle of my body against his chest.
There is no innocent version of it.
I look at Camille.
She lowers the phone slowly and smiles without warmth. “So.”
I don’t say anything. Because there’s nothing useful to say. Notthat isn’t what it looks likewhen it is exactly what it looks like. Notwhere did you get thatwhen the answer is obviously someone who shouldn’t have been taking pictures in the hallway. Notdelete itwhen I can already tell she won’t.
Camille walks farther into the room and turns to face me properly. “I knew something was off,” she says. “At dinner. This morning. The way he kept stepping in. The way you kept pretending you weren’t involved in whatever this is.”
I keep my voice even. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s adorable.”
I fold my arms. “If you came here to insult me, you’re late. It’s been a very crowded day.”
Her eyes flick over me, pleased that I’m trying to spar instead of deny. “No,” she says. “I came because now I know exactly what you are.”
That would have stung more six months ago. Now it just makes me tired.
“And what is that?”
“Opportunistic.” She tilts her head slightly. “Desperate. The kind of woman who gets embarrassed by one man and crawls into the bed of another to feel like she’s won.”
The words are nasty, but not surprising. What surprises me is how calm I feel.
Maybe I’ve just had enough for one day. Or maybe when someone has already shoved you in a hallway, publicly humiliated you, and turned a wedding into a war zone, they stop being able to surprise you.
“You should leave,” I say.
Camille laughs softly. “You really think you’re in a position to dismiss me?”
I don’t answer.
She lifts the phone again and taps the screen with one manicured nail. “Do you know what this does if it gets out?”
I do.