Scorned Ex Wife: Queen Of Ashes

CAMILLE'S POINT OF VIEW

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days of trying to be the perfect wife, and this was my reward divorce papers on our anniversary.

I stared at Stefan's perfect signature on the last page, the ink still fresh. He must have signed them this morning, probably right after I'd left that stupid handmade card on his desk. The one I'd spent hours making, like a fool who still believed in fairy tales.

The anniversary card I made for my husband Stefan still sat on the kitchen counter, untouched. Three years of marriage summed up in a handmade gesture he couldn't even bother to open. I'd spent hours on it last night, writing words I thought mattered.

My coffee had gone cold. Funny how you notice small things when your world is falling apart.

"Sign here. And here." Stefan's voice was distant, businesslike. He'd laid out the divorce papers like contracts at one of his meetings, sticky tabs marking each signature line. "The highlighted sections need initials."

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. "You're doing this today? On our anniversary?"

"Camille." He sighed, that familiar sound of disappointment I'd heard so many times before. "There's no point dragging this out."

The morning sun streamed through our kitchen windows, catching the diamond on my finger. Three carats, princess cut, picked out by his mother. "Not your style, dear, but it's what a Rodriguez wife should wear," she'd said at the time. Like everything else in my life, it had never really been mine.

"Is there someone else?"

The question hung in the air between us. Stefan straightened his tie, Italian silk, the blue one I'd given him for Christmas. "Yes."

One word. That's all it took to erase three years of trying to be perfect.

"How long?"

"Two months." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "She came back to town and..."

"Two months," I repeated. All those late nights at the office. The missed dinners. The way he'd stopped kissing me goodbye in the mornings. "Were you ever going to tell me? Or just keep lying until the papers were ready?"

"I didn't want to hurt you."

A laugh bubbled up, harsh, unfamiliar. "That's thoughtful of you."

My hand knocked against my coffee mug, sending it crashing to the floor. Dark liquid spread across the pristine tiles, staining the grout I'd scrubbed on hands and knees last week because his mother was coming to visit.

"Let me get that..." Stefan reached for the paper towels.

"Don't." My voice cracked. "Just... don't pretend to care now."

I bent to pick up the broken pieces. A photo slipped from between the divorce papers, landing face-up in the spilled coffee.

The world stopped.

I knew that smile. Those eyes. That perfectly poised expression that had haunted every family photo since I was twelve.

"Rose?" My sister's name tasted like poison. "Your first love was Rose?"

Stefan's silence said everything.

Memories hit like punches to the gut. Rose helping me pick out my wedding dress. Rose giving toasts at our engagement party. Rose calling every week to check on my marriage, to give advice about keeping Stefan happy.

My adopted sister. My parents' golden child. The one they'd chosen to love.

"She never left town, did she?" The pieces were falling into place. "She's been here the whole time, waiting. Playing the supportive sister while you both laughed at stupid, naive Camille."

"It wasn't like that." Stefan ran his hands through his hair, that gesture I used to find endearing. "We tried to fight it. But some people are just meant to..."

"If you say 'meant to be' I swear I'll throw this mug at your head." My fingers tightened around the broken ceramic. "How long were you together before? Before me?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Four years. Until she got the job offer in London."

Four years. The same time I'd started dating Stefan. The same time Rose had suddenly become my biggest cheerleader, pushing me toward him.

"She set this up," I whispered. "All of it. And I fell for every piece."

"Camille, you're being dramatic. Rose cares about you."

"Like she cared when she told my first boyfriend I was damaged goods? Or when she convinced my parents I was too unstable for college?" The broken mug cut into my palm, but I barely felt it. "She's been sabotaging me my whole life, and I kept making excuses because that's what good sisters do, right?"

Blood dripped onto the divorce papers. Stefan reached for my hand but I jerked away.

"Don't touch me." I grabbed a dish towel, wrapping it around my palm. "Where is she now? Waiting to comfort me through my divorce? Planning your next wedding?"

"She wanted to be here, but I thought it would be better..."

"Better?" I laughed again, the sound edged with hysteria. "Yes, you've both been so concerned with what's better for me. Such caring people."

I picked up the pen, the Mont Blanc he'd given me on our first anniversary. The one Rose had helped him choose.

"Camille, wait. We should talk about this properly."

I signed every page, my signature perfectly steady. Let them see I wasn't breaking. Let them think they'd won.

"I'm done talking." I gathered my purse, the signed papers, Rose's photo. "Done pretending. Done being the good sister, the perfect wife, the daughter who never complains."

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you. Away from her. Away from everyone who thinks Camille Lewis is someone they can use and discard."

My phone buzzed, Rose's smiling face lit up the screen. Right on cue, coming to play her part.

I declined the call and walked to the door. Behind me, Stefan called out, "You can't just leave. We need to discuss arrangements, the house, the accounts..."

"You can have it all." I turned to face him one last time. "The house, the cars, the life you built on lies. I don't want anything that reminds me of either of you."

"Camille, please..."

"Goodbye, Stefan." I smiled, and something in my expression made him step back. "Give Rose my love. Tell her thank you, actually."

"For what?"

"For finally showing me the truth. About her, about you, about who I need to become."

I walked out of that house, out of that life, leaving bloody fingerprints on the door handle. Let them try to erase those as easily as they'd erased me.

Three years of pretending to be someone I wasn't. Three years of swallowing pain and making excuses for people who never deserved my loyalty.

My phone buzzed again. Rose. Then my mother. Then Stefan. One by one, I blocked them all.

Every connection to the life I thought I had to live.

In my rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Tears streaked my makeup, blood stained my dress, my hair had come loose from its perfect twist.

I looked nothing like the polished, proper wife Stefan Rodriguez had married.