Chapter 6

Emilia POV:

Hailee Abbott' s presence at the hospital became a daily performance. Each visit was a carefully orchestrated media event, a further cementing of the narrative Cameron had so meticulously crafted. She' d sweep in, perfectly coiffed and impeccably dressed, reporters trailing her like eager puppies. She' d air-kiss my cheek, offer a practiced smile, and then, in front of the cameras, proclaim her undying concern for Gilbert.

One afternoon, as she posed for a photo op outside Gilbert' s room, she turned to a reporter and, with a seemingly innocent flutter of her eyelashes, said, "It's just so tragic, isn't it? Emilia's father, such a respected compliance officer, losing his position all those years ago right after... well, you know. It must have taken such a toll on him, being implicated in that whole unfortunate mess." She paused dramatically, letting the implications hang in the air. "I mean, a compliance officer! So vital for a firm's integrity. It makes you wonder, doesn't it, what really happened back then to cause such a scandal?"

A chill ran down my spine. Gilbert hadn't just 'lost his position.' He had been blacklisted, his reputation shredded, his pension gone. I always assumed it was collateral damage from my own public shaming, a cruel ripple effect. He was my father, and I was his daughter; the guilt by association was undeniable. His health had declined ever since, a slow, agonizing descent.

But Hailee' s words, the way she emphasized "implicated" and "compliance officer," struck a dissonant chord. What really happened?

Gilbert had been a meticulous man, unwavering in his ethics. It was why he'd chosen compliance, to uphold the exact standards Cameron had so gleefully trampled. He wasn't just "implicated"; he was destroyed. And Hailee, by subtly drawing attention to his role as a compliance officer, was hinting at something deeper. Something I hadn't seen.

A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. Had I been so consumed by my own pain, my own humiliation, that I missed a crucial piece of the puzzle? What if Gilbert wasn't just an innocent bystander in my downfall? What if he was a target, just like me?

The thought propelled me out of the hospital. I hailed a cab, my mind racing. I needed answers. And I knew only one place to get them.

Cameron' s office was a fortress of glass and steel, a monument to his avarice. I bypassed the receptionist, my steps purposeful, my heart thumping a furious rhythm against my ribs. I pushed past his assistant, who sputtered in protest, and stormed into his opulent corner office.

Cameron looked up from his enormous mahogany desk, his expression a mixture of surprise and irritation. He immediately dismissed his assistant with a curt nod. The door clicked shut, sealing us in the silent, tense space.

"Emilia," he said, his voice laced with caution. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

"My father," I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage. "His 'implication.' His 'scandal.' Was he just collateral damage, Cameron, or were you aiming for him too?"

His usual calm facade wavered for a fraction of a second. His eyes flickered away from mine, a tell-tale sign I remembered all too well. He composed himself quickly. "Emilia, what are you talking about? Gilbert simply lost his position due to the fallout from your-"

"Don't you dare," I interrupted, my voice rising. "Don't you dare blame me for this. Not anymore." I reached into my bag and pulled out a faded, dog-eared document. It was a copy of the internal compliance review report from ten years ago, something my father had managed to hold onto, a last scrap of his integrity. "I found this in his old files. An anonymous tip that led to his suspension, citing 'gross negligence' and 'failure to report suspicious activities.'"

I slammed the report onto his desk, the sound echoing in the silent room. "Take a closer look at the handwriting on this anonymous tip, Cameron. I recognized it. It's yours. The same looping 'C,' the distinctive slant of the 's.' You wrote it, didn't you? You didn't just frame me; you framed my father too. You deliberately orchestrated his downfall."

Cameron's face drained of color. He picked up the report, his fingers tracing the familiar script. For a moment, the mask slipped entirely. I saw fear, and then, a chilling, steely resolve. He put the report down, meeting my gaze.

"It was a necessary step," he said, his voice low, devoid of emotion. "Gilbert was too ethical. He would have uncovered the irregularities in the merger. He would have stopped it."

Rage, pure and incandescent, tore through me. My hands clenched into fists, trembling. "You destroyed him! You ruined his life, his health, everything, just to secure your empire!"

"It was for our future, Emilia!" he shot back, a flicker of his old arrogance returning. "Don't you understand? For us! For the life I envisioned for us!"

"Us?" I laughed, a harsh, broken sound. Tears stung my eyes. "There is no 'us', Cameron. There hasn't been for ten years. You stole my life, and then you broke my father's heart and body just to make more money. How much more did you hide?" My voice was a desperate, raw plea. "What else did you do? Just tell me! What else did I miss because I was too busy bleeding?"

A flicker of something-regret? pity?-crossed his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. I remembered the young Cameron, the one who would protect me fiercely from any perceived threat. The memory was a fresh stab wound.

He stood up, walking around the desk. "Emilia, please. Let me explain-" He reached for my hand.

I recoiled violently, stumbling backward, my body screaming in disgust at his touch. "Don't you dare touch me!"

Just then, his phone buzzed, vibrating loudly on the polished surface of his desk. He glanced at it, then back at me. It buzzed again. He hesitated for a split second, then snatched it up.

"Hailee? What is it?" His voice was suddenly sharp, laced with genuine concern. "What? Slow down. Are you alright? Where are you?"

He wasn't even listening to me anymore. His fiancée, his precious Hailee, was in some kind of distress, and that immediately eclipsed my pain, my father's suffering, everything between us.

He grabbed his jacket, already halfway out the door. "I have to go, Emilia. We'll discuss this later." And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone in his vast, echoing office.

I stood there, the silence pressing in on me, my body shaking. My throat was raw, my limbs heavy. My arguments, my accusations, my desperate plea for truth, all meant nothing. My pain was a minor inconvenience, easily discarded for the more urgent, more important needs of his current life. The sheer, brutal indifference was a slap in the face. My father' s death, my shattered life, was merely background noise to his perfect, curated existence.