Chapter 4 Realizing the🥹truth is hard

Chapter 4

PAIN AND DEVASTATION

Camille spent the rest of the night locked in her room, refusing to come down for dinner. She barely slept, her mind replaying the humiliation of seeing her ex-lover in bed with another woman. She had convinced herself he loved her, that if she could only escape from Luciano, she could have a life of her own.

But now, she had nowhere to run.

The next morning, still groaning from exhaustion, she heard a knock on her door. Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and to her utmost surprise, Luciano stepped inside-with a tray of breakfast.

She sat up instantly, staring at him in disbelief.

Without a word, Luciano walked over and set the tray on the nightstand beside her bed. The aroma of fresh eggs, buttered toast, and hot coffee filled the air, but Camille barely noticed. Her focus was on the man before her-the cold, ruthless mafia boss-bringing her breakfast in bed.

Luciano met her gaze and smirked slightly. "You didn't come down for dinner last night, so I figured you'd be hungry."

Camille wanted to cut him off with a sharp response, but his next words made her pause.

"I don't like seeing my wife starve."

There was something in his tone-not softness, but a quiet, unwavering concern. It wasn't romantic, nor was it affectionate. It was simply... Luciano.

He turned away, heading toward the door. Just as he reached the exit, he stopped and glanced back, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone.

"Get some rest. We have a meeting to attend tomorrow." His sharp gaze locked onto hers. "Mrs. Valeria will be here early to attend to your style."

And then, in a lower, almost dangerously smooth voice, he added, " Get better, my dear wife."

Then, without waiting for her response, he left.

Camille sat motionless for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest.

She wasn't shocked by his authority. She was shocked by... whatever this was.

Bringing her food instead of ordering a servant to do it. Telling her to rest. Acting as though he cared.

What was he trying to prove?

The following morning, Camille woke up to the sound of movement outside her bedroom door. The shuffling of feet, the rustle of garment bags, and the murmur of unfamiliar voices sent a wave of irritation through her.

She groaned, pulling the covers over her head, but a sharp knock made her freeze.

"Come in," she muttered begrudgingly.

The door opened, and a woman in her early forties entered with an air of authority. She was impeccably dressed in a fitted navy blue dress, her graying blonde hair swept into an elegant bun. Every detail of her appearance, from her pearl earrings to her pristine gloves, screamed sophistication.

Camille instantly knew-this was no ordinary stylist.

"Good morning, Mrs. Camilie,"the woman greeted in a smooth, professional tone. "I am Valeria Volkov. Luciano assigned me to oversee your wardrobe for tonight's gala."

Camille's brows furrowed. "You're a Volkov?"

Valeria gave her a knowing smile. "By marriage. My late husband was Luciano's uncle. I have worked as a designer and personal stylist for the Volkov family for many years."

So, not just a stylist. A woman deeply embedded in the family. A woman who understood the weight of the name Camille now carried.

Valeria clapped her hands, and several assistants entered, carrying an array of designer dresses, makeup kits, and jewelry cases. Camille sat frozen as they began setting up the room like a private boutique.

"I assume you don't have experience attending events of this caliber," Valeria continued, her gaze appraising. "You will be standing beside Luciano. You will be watched, judged, and admired. We must ensure you make an unforgettable impression."

Camille swallowed. "I never agreed to this gala."

Valeria's lips twitched in amusement. "And yet, here we are."

Camille's jaw clenched, but she knew arguing was pointless. Luciano had already decided, and nothing she said would change it.

Valeria gestured to a collection of gowns. "I had several options prepared based on what Luciano said would suit you best. He specifically requested something bold. Elegant, but not innocent."

Camille's stomach twisted. "Of course, he did."

Valeria ignored her sarcasm and picked up a sleek black dress with a daring thigh-high slit and an open back. The silk fabric shimmered in the light, whispering luxury and power.

"This," Valeria said, holding it against Camille's frame. "This will make a statement."

Camille stared at her reflection in the mirror as Valeria's assistants worked around her-fixing her hair into soft waves, painting her lips a deep red, and sliding diamond earrings onto her ears. Every brushstroke, every adjustment, every piece of jewelry felt like another chain binding her to Luciano.

When she finally stepped into the black gown, it fit her like a second skin.

She turned to Valeria. "Is this how it works? You dress me up like a trophy for him to parade around?"

Valeria met her gaze, unreadable. "You may feel like a prisoner now, but remember-even a caged bird learns how to use its song."

Camille didn't know what to make of that.

Before she could respond, the door opened again.

And Luciano walked in.