Chapter 180
Chapter 180
Rain tapped against the windows of Camille’s office as she reviewed quarterly reports. The sky had darkened early, turning
afternoon to evening without her noticing. She rubbed her tired eyes, realizing she’d been staring at the same page for ten
minutes.
Her assistant’s voice came through the intercom. “Ms. Kane? There’s someone here to see you. She doesn’t have an
appointment.”
Camille frowned. “Who is it?”
“A Mrs. Pierce. She says it’s personal.”
Camille’s hand froze. Pierce. Alexander’s family name. But he rarely spoke of his parents, and when he did, his voice turned cold
in a way that reminded her of Victoria at her most distant.
“Send her in,” Camille said, smoothing her skirt as she stood.
The woman who entered moved with quiet grace, her shoulders pulled back despite the obvious tension in her face. She was tall
and slim, with silver–streaked dark hair pulled into a neat bun. Her clothes were expensive but understated. But it was her eyes that caught Camille’s attention. They were Alexander’s eyes exactly, the same deep blue that could shift from warmth to ice in
seconds.
“Ms. Kane,” the woman said, her voice soft but steady. “Thank you for seeing me without notice. I’m Eleanor Pierce.”
Camille gestured to the chair across from her desk. “Please, sit down.”
Eleanor perched on the edge of the seat, clutching her handbag like a shield. “I imagine this is quite surprising. Alexander doesn’t
know I’m here.”
“He’s never mentioned you would visit,” Camille agreed, studying the woman’s face. The resemblance was unmistakable now.
“He wouldn’t,” Eleanor said, pain flashing across her features. “My son hasn’t spoken to me or his father in almost seven years.
Not even when we begged him to after James died.”
The rawness in Eleanor’s voice made Camille pause. Alexander had told her fragments of his history, about the car accident, his
brother walking away unscathed while Alexander spent months in the hospital. About his family choosing sides. About his brother’s death four years ago and his parents‘ desperate attempts to reconnect that he’d ruthlessly rebuffed.
“Mrs. Pierce, why have you come to me now? After all this time?”
Eleanor’s fingers whitened around her bag. “Because I’m running out of hope.” Her voice cracked. “Four years of silence. Four
years of trying to reach him with no response.”
The admission hung in the air between them.
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“I’m sorry,” Camille said quietly.
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Eleanor shook her head, a tear escaping. “Don’t be. I’ve had four years of letters returned unopened. Four years of calls ignored.
Four years standing outside his building just hoping to catch a glimpse of him.” Her composure fractured. “Do you know what it’s
like to see your child on magazine covers and realize you don’t know him anymore? To watch him receive awards, build companies, fall in love, all from a distance?”
“We failed him,” Eleanor continued, voice barely above a whisper. “When he needed us most, we failed him. His father and I… we made a choice so terrible I wake up choking on it every night.”
Camille remained silent, letting the woman speak.
“His brother James was always the golden child. When the accident happened, we couldn’t believe James would have been driving
recklessly. We couldn’t face that he’d been drinking.” A sob escaped her. “It was easier to believe Alexander’s version was
confused by his injuries.”
“You took James’s side,” Camille said quietly.
“While Alexander was still in the hospital,” Eleanor said, eyes overflowing. “While he was fighting to walk again, fighting
through surgeries and pain no young man should endure. We chose to believe James’s lies, and Alexander has never forgiven us.”
Her voice broke. “He shouldn’t.”
Camille felt her own eyes burning. The raw anguish in Eleanor’s voice was impossible to dismiss.
“We tried to reach him,” Eleanor continued after composing herself. “We went to his apartment the day after the funeral. He
wouldn’t even open the door.”
She pulled a small stack of envelopes from her bag, held together with a ribbon. “I’ve written him every month for four years.
Birthdays. Christmas. Just ordinary days when I remembered something about him.” Her voice trembled. “They all came back
marked ‘Return to Sender.‘ Unopened.”
“Why come to me?” Camille asked. “After all these attempts, why now?”
“Because you made him smile again,” Eleanor said simply. She extracted a magazine clipping, a photo of Alexander and Camille
at a charity event, his head thrown back in genuine laughter. “I haven’t seen him laugh like this since before the accident. You’ve
given him something I thought was lost forever.”
“What is it you want from me?” Camille asked, gentler now.
“I need him to know the truth directly from me. Not from a letter he won’t read.” Her eyes burned with intensity. “I need to tell
my son, to his face, that he was right. That we were wrong. That we’ve paid for our betrayal every day with the loss of him.”
“What about his father?” Camille asked.
“Edward is a broken man. James’s death shattered him. Alexander’s refusal to acknowledge us destroyed what was left.” Her
voice hardened. “Four years ago, Edward drove to Alexander’s building every day for three weeks. Just sat in his car, hoping for a
glimpse.”
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She took a deep breath. “Last month, when Edward saw your engagement announcement, he collapsed. Had a minor stroke. The
doctor said it was stress, but I know it was grief. The realization that Alexander had built a new life we’d never be part of.”
“Please,” Eleanor whispered, the word raw with desperation. “I know we don’t deserve another chance. But Alexander deserves
the truth. He deserves to hear us say he was right all along.”
Camille walked to the window, giving Eleanor a moment. The rain was letting up, patches of evening sky visible between clouds.
“After James died,” she asked, “did Alexander know he’d confessed? Did you tell him?”
“We tried,” Eleanor said, her voice hollow. “We went to his apartment the day after the funeral. Edward was in shock. I remember standing there, James’s letter in my hand, knocking until my knuckles bruised.”
She closed her eyes. “We sent James’s letter by courier the next day. It came back unopened. We tried his company, we tried
through mutual friends, Alexander had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with us.”
Eleanor looked down at her hands. “The last time we actually spoke to him was at the hospital, during his final surgery. He looked
at us with such emptiness. He said, ‘You’ve chosen. So have I.‘ He hasn’t spoken to us since. Seven years of silence.”
“And what would you say to him now? If I somehow convinced him to see you?”
“That I’m sorry. That I was wrong. That I’ve lived with that wrong choice every day.” Eleanor’s voice strengthened with conviction. “That a mother is supposed to protect her child, and I failed at the most fundamental duty. That I’ve missed him with a pain so physical I sometimes can’t breathe with it.”
Her eyes met Camille’s, red–rimmed but steady. “That I’m proud of the man he’s become, despite us, not because of us. That I understand if he can never forgive us, but I needed him to know that we finally faced the truth. That we know James lied. That
Alexander was right.”
“And his father?”
“Edward can barely speak about Alexander without breaking down,” Eleanor said quietly. “He keeps a file of every news article. He follows all of Alexander’s companies, buys stock in each one.” She gave a broken laugh. “He has this absurd idea that somehow, if Alexander ever checked his shareholder records, he’d see his father’s name and know we still care.”
“Your engagement,” Eleanor continued, “it gave us hope. That perhaps Alexander could forgive, could rebuild after betrayal. The
way you did with your parents.”
Camille stiffened. “You’ve been researching me.”
“Obsessively,” Eleanor admitted without shame. “You’re the woman our son loves. Of course we’ve learned everything about you we could.” Her face softened. “And what we learned gave us hope. You’ve overcome betrayal. You’ve reconciled with those who
hurt you. You understand the possibility of redemption.”
Camille thought of her own journey, of Victoria who had taught her the power of strategic thinking but was only now learning the strength in vulnerability. Of her own parents, who had asked for a second chance.
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“I’ll help you,” she said finally. “Not because you deserve it, but because Alexander deserves the choice. To hear you out or to send you away again, that should be his decision, made with all the facts.”
Relief flooded Eleanor’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered.
derstand this,” Camille continued, her voice firm. “If he doesn’t want to see you, that’s the end of it. I won’t push him. ou hurt him again in any way….”
nderstand,” Eleanor said. “You’re protecting him as I failed to do. As you should.”
She removed a small, worn photograph from her bag, placing it on the desk.
“This is Alexander at eight,” she said. “The sailing competition he won that summer.”
Camille looked down at the image of a grinning boy with windswept hair, holding a small trophy. His smile was uninhibited in a
way she’d rarely seen on the adult Alexander.
“He used to laugh all the
accident, after wh
Eleanor ro
speak
Eleanor said, her voice thick with memory. “The sound would fill the whole house. After the
Her voice caught. “I’ve never heard that laugh again. Except in that photo with you.”
ovements weighted with grief. “Leave your contact details with my assistant,” Camille said. “I’ll
hight.”
e door. “We named him after Alexander the Great,” she said softly. “Edward wanted a conqueror’s name. But
was for him to be happy.” Her eyes, so like her son’s, met Camille’s one last time. “Thank you for giving him or helping him find joy again, even if it’s a joy we’ll never share.”
left, Camille remained at the window, watching the city lights blink on as darkness fell completely. She thought of the
versation ahead with Alexander, of the rage it might unleash. Of wounds reopened and possibly, just possibly, finally
beginning to heal.
She had promised to help Eleanor Pierce. Now she had to find the wisdom to help Alexander too, whatever path he chose to take.
Her fingers traced the edge of the childhood photograph, this evidence of happiness before pain. She wondered if such
uncomplicated joy could ever truly be reclaimed, or if the best any of them could hope for was to build something new from the
broken pieces.
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“I’ll help you,” she said finally. “Not because you deserve it, but because Alexander deserves the choice. To hear you out or to
send you away again, that should be his decision, made with all the facts.”
Relief flooded Eleanor’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“But understand this,” Camille continued, her voice firm. “If he doesn’t want to see you, that’s the end of it. I won’t push him.
And if you hurt him again in any way….”
“I understand,” Eleanor said. “You’re protecting him as I failed to do. As you should.”
She removed a small, worn photograph from her bag, placing it on the desk.
“This is Alexander at eight,” she said. “The sailing competition he won that summer.”
Camille looked down at the image of a grinning boy with windswept hair, holding a small trophy. His smile was uninhibited in a
way she’d rarely seen on the adult Alexander.
“He used to laugh all the time,” Eleanor said, her voice thick with memory. “The sound would fill the whole house. After the
accident, after what we did…” Her voice caught. “I’ve never heard that laugh again. Except in that photo with you.”
Eleanor rose to leave, her movements weighted with grief. “Leave your contact details with my assistant,” Camille said. “I’ll
speak with Alexander tonight.”
Eleanor paused at the door. “We named him after Alexander the Great,” she said softly. “Edward wanted a conqueror’s name. But
all I ever wanted was for him to be happy.” Her eyes, so like her son’s, met Camille’s one last time. “Thank you for giving him
that, at least. For helping him find joy again, even if it’s a joy we’ll never share.”
After she left, Camille remained at the window, watching the city lights blink on as darkness fell completely. She thought of the
conversation ahead with Alexander, of the rage it might unleash. Of wounds reopened and possibly, just possibly, finally beginning to heal.
She had promised to help Eleanor Pierce. Now she had to find the wisdom to help Alexander too, whatever path he chose to take.
Her fingers traced the edge of the childhood photograph, this evidence of happiness before pain. She wondered if such
uncomplicated joy could ever truly be reclaimed, or if the best any of them could hope for was to build something new from the
broken pieces.
