Chapter 6 6

The drive back was silent, but the air was heavy enough to choke on.

Back at the estate, the atmosphere had shifted. Before, Camisha was a guest. Now, she was a prisoner with privileges. Two large security guards stood outside her suite.

Hart walked in an hour later. He tossed a garment bag on the bed.

"The Gala is tonight," he said. "You will wear this. You will smile. You will play the loving wife. And tomorrow, we discuss the ledger."

Camisha looked at the bag. "I'm not going."

"You are. Or I start asking questions about why a three-year-old boy has my exact peanut allergy."

Camisha froze. He was getting closer.

"Fine."

She opened the bag. It was a stunning emerald green gown. Backless.

She stared at it. "I can't wear this."

"Why not? It's your size."

"It's backless, Hart."

"So? You have a nice back."

"I have... a scar," she whispered.

Hart frowned. "Since when?"

"Since three years ago. A burn."

Hart paused. Three years ago. The blackout. The fire in the server room. He remembered the two distinct phases of that night's crisis: the initial digital breach that was miraculously patched by an anonymous remote user, and the subsequent fire in the physical server room, an event Isadora had always dismissed as secondary. She claimed her digital firewall was the true act of salvation, that the fire was just a mess for the cleanup crew.

"Cover it up," Hart said abruptly. He turned and left.

Two hours later, Camisha stood in front of the mirror. She had used half a tube of industrial-strength concealer to hide the jagged, ugly scar that ran from her shoulder blade to her mid-back. It looked flawless.

Isadora walked in. She was holding a glass of red wine. Her cheek was still red from the slap, but she had covered it with makeup.

"You look... adequate," Isadora sneered. "Hart is waiting."

The Gala was a sea of diamonds and tuxedos at the Met. Cameras flashed. Hart took Camisha's arm. His grip was firm, possessive.

"Smile," he murmured.

They walked the red carpet. Camisha felt sick.

Inside, the ballroom was hot. They were surrounded by board members. Felix England was watching them like a hawk.

"Mrs. Whitney," Felix smirked. "So good to see you returned from the dead."

"I was just on sabbatical, Felix," Camisha said smoothly.

Hart looked at her with a flicker of admiration. She was good at this.

Isadora appeared behind them. She signaled a waiter.

As the waiter passed Camisha, he "tripped." A tray of red wine cascaded down Camisha's back.

The cold liquid hit her skin. She gasped.

"Oh no!" Isadora cried out, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Let me help!"

She grabbed a napkin and started rubbing Camisha's back aggressively. The wine acted as a solvent. The concealer dissolved.

The jagged, pink-and-white scar was revealed. It was ugly. It was undeniable.

The crowd gasped.

"Oh, look at that hideous mark," Isadora whispered loud enough for Hart to hear. "Disgusting."

Hart stared at the scar.

Time stopped.

He remembered the dark server room. The heat. He had gone in against protocol to retrieve a backup drive, a foolish, desperate act. A beam had buckled. The woman pushing him out of the way. He had reached out and touched her back. He had felt the searing heat of her skin. The shape of the burn on his memory matched the scar perfectly.

He looked at Isadora. Isadora, who had smooth, unblemished skin. Isadora, who claimed the real heroism happened on a keyboard, miles away.

He looked at Camisha. Camisha, who had hidden this for three years.

"It was you," Hart whispered.

Camisha pulled away, trying to cover her back with her arms. "I... I fell against a stove."

"Liar." Hart's voice cracked.

Isadora laughed nervously. "Hart, don't look at it. It's gross."

Hart turned on Isadora. The fury in his eyes was terrifying. "Get out of my sight."

"What?"

"You lied. You never saved me. You told me you handled it remotely. You let me believe the fire was incidental. You took credit for her sacrifice. You stole three years of my gratitude."

He took off his tuxedo jacket. Gently, with a reverence he had never shown before, he placed it over Camisha's shoulders. He buttoned it in the front, shielding her.

He pulled her close. He kissed her forehead. It wasn't for the cameras.

"Anyone who speaks of this," Hart addressed the staring crowd, his voice booming, "answers to me."

He walked her out of the ballroom. Camisha leaned against his chest. She could hear his heart hammering. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The secret was out. But the bigger secret-Leo-was still ticking like a bomb.