Chapter 3 3

The Night to Forget

Camilla's POV

They say every woman has a night she wishes she could rewrite.

This one was mine.

And yet, in the hours before it happened, it didn't feel like danger,

it felt like magic.

It started with laughter.

The company was celebrating the successful launch of a tech product in Milan-an elite invite-only cocktail affair hosted at a rooftop garden.

I wasn't supposed to be there, but Damian had insisted, forwarding me the digital invitation himself.

"You're part of the team now," he had said. "Don't argue."

So I came.

I wore a simple navy dress, nothing extravagant and nothing flashy. But it fit well and for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to wear my hair down.

I even added a soft gloss to my lips-more from curiosity than confidence.

The rooftop glowed with golden string lights and gentle violin music. Crystal glasses clinked in the air. Men in tuxedos murmured over mergers and models. Women laughed like a drifting in the wind.

And somehow... I belonged.

At least for a while.

Daniel found me near the balcony, cradling a flute of champagne I hadn't tasted.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his tie hung like an afterthought. He looked effortlessly undone, like the kind of man who always knew he was being watched.

"Camilla," he said warmly, as though it was my name that made the air hum.

"Daniel," I replied, offering the smallest of smiles. "Enjoying yourself?"

He tilted his head. "I'm now."

I looked away, trying not to roll my eyes. "You're predictable."

"Not always, come, I want to show you something."

I hesitated. "What?"

He extended his hand. "Don't worry. I promise not to throw you off the edge."

That made me laugh. I took his hand-foolishly, maybe-and let him lead me through the crowd, past the dance floor and the tables, into a quieter corridor behind a curtain of ivy.

He pulled open a narrow glass door, and we stepped into a small and private terrace. There were no lights here-just the glow of the city beneath us and the gentle night breeze curling around our faces.

"You can see everything from up here," he said, walking toward the railing. "The city, the streets and the lives we never touch."

I stood beside him, hugging my arms. "Is that how you see the world? Like a map below your feet?"

He turned to look at me. "Sometimes, but not tonight."

There was something different in his voice-softer, perhaps. He leaned on the railing, his shoulder brushing mine.

"You're not like the others," he said.

I shook my head, amused. "Please don't start with that."

"I mean it," he said, serious now. "You don't want anything from me."

"I want a job. A paycheck."

He laughed. "Sure. But not like them. You're not playing games, you're just... you."

I didn't know what to say. Compliments from men like Daniel usually felt like honeyed traps. But tonight, something in his tone disarmed me.

"You know," he added, swirling the champagne in his glass, "my grandmother used to say that still water runs deep, she said the quiet ones are always the ones to watch."

"Smart woman," I said.

"She died when I was ten."

The air shifted.

I turned toward him. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago, but I think that's why I don't... connect easily. I've spent years pretending to be the man everyone wants. Sometimes I don't even know if he's real anymore."

His vulnerability caught me off guard. I had always imagined Daniel as shallow-handsome and hollow. But tonight, in the dark, beneath a sky with stars, he felt more like a boy lost in the echo of wealth and expectation.

"Do you ever get tired?" I asked.

"All the time."

We stood there for a moment, our silence more intimate than words.

Then he looked at me differently.

Not as a secretary, not as a game piece but as a woman.

"I shouldn't do this," he murmured.

My heart fluttered. "Then don't."

But he did.

His lips touched mine-tentative at first, almost unsure. I could have pulled away. I should have, but I didn't.

Maybe I wanted to feel something.

Maybe I wanted to forget everything I couldn't control-my father's failing health, my mother's sacrifices, the way Damian's stare unsettled me in quiet meetings.

Maybe I just wanted someone to see me.

So I kissed him back.

And when he whispered, "Come with me," I followed him.

Like a fool.

The hotel suite was already booked.

I should have known.

It was three blocks from the rooftop, discreet and dimly lit, the kind of place men like Daniel kept on standby.

He opened the door for me, and I walked into a world of soft carpets, velvet curtains and chilled wine waiting on a silver tray.

"This is too much," I said, breathless.

He closed the door. "It's not enough."

And then he kissed me again.

It was different this time, urgent, warm and real.

We didn't talk much, our words were replaced by hands and sighs, by buttons loosened and heels kicked aside.

The world outside faded, my thoughts unraveled. I stopped calculating and I let myself feel.

Because in that moment, I wasn't a secretary.

I wasn't the daughter of a maid.

I was a woman someone wanted.

Even if only for a night.

I woke up in a hotel robe I didn't recognize.

The bed beside me was empty.

Daniel was gone.

The room was still, almost sterile in its perfection. The wine glasses were untouched. A scent of cologne lingered in the air.

I sat up slowly, the sheets cool against my skin. My head throbbed-not from wine, but from the sting of reality returning.

I looked around. No note, no call and no explanation.

Just silence.

I got dressed quietly, folding the robe neatly on the bed. I left without telling anyone. I didn't want a driver and I didn't want a scene.

I just wanted to disappear.

I called in sick the next morning.

Fever, I said.

Which wasn't a lie.

There was a fever in my chest, burning behind my eyes and a fever of shame, of disbelief or of the awful, sinking feeling that I had been nothing more than a convenience.

Daniel didn't call.

Didn't text.

And when I returned to work on Monday, he smiled at me like nothing had happened. Like we hadn't undressed each other with trembling hands.

Like I hadn't left pieces of myself scattered across the sheets of that hotel suite.

I nodded politely.

Smiled, even.

But inside, I was burning.

It wasn't just the kiss, or the night. It was what it meant.

That after all these months, after earning my seat in rooms I never dreamed of entering, I had let myself believe I could matter in their world.

That I wasn't just furniture.

That I wasn't just a girl from the servant's quarters.

But Daniel's silence-his cold, easy dismissal-reminded me that some things never change.

I was still invisible.

Still... disposable.