Chapter 19
Chapter 19
CAMILLE’S
‘S POINT OF VIEW
Four months into my new life as Camille Kane, I finally had a day to myself. No combat training with Jason. No business lessons. No public appearances or meetings with Victoria’s corporate associates. Just twenty–four hours of unscheduled time stretching before me like an unexpected gift.
I’d almost forgotten what freedom felt like.
The morning sun streamed through my bedroom windows as I lingered over breakfast on my private balcony. Below, gardeners tended the immaculate grounds of Victoria’s estate, a sprawling property that occupied thirty acres of prime real estate just outside Manhattan. Despite living here for months, I’d seen only a fraction of it, my daily routine too packed with lessons and training to allow exploration.
But not today.
I dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, clothes I rarely wore now that my wardrobe consisted primarily of designer business attire and formal wear. My reflection in the mirror still startled me sometimes, the sharper cheekbones, the more refined nose, the elegant bob that had replaced my once- long hair. A woman designed for power rather than pleasing others.
Victoria had left at dawn for a business trip to Tokyo, taking James and her usual security detail with her. The mansion felt different without her commanding presence, quieter, less intense, almost peaceful.
“Ms. Kane?” A soft knock accompanied the housekeeper’s voice. “Will you be needing anything before I leave for my sister’s wedding?”
Mrs. Chen, the only staff member who lived off–premises, had mentioned the family event weeks ago. “No, thank you, Mrs. Chen. Enjoy the wedding.”
“There’s food prepared in the refrigerator. I’ll return tomorrow evening.”
Her footsteps faded down the hallway. Minutes later, the distant sound of the service entrance closing left me truly alone in the massive house for the first time since my arrival.
Completely alone. No Victoria. No staff. No security beyond the perimeter guards who monitored the property’s edges without entering the grounds.
Perfect
I’d been mapping the mansion in my head for months, noting areas I was subtly discouraged from entering, doors that remained locked, topics that caused Victoria to change the conversation. One section in particular had drawn my curiosity, the cast wing of the third floor, accessible only through a corridor that was always locked. Victoria’s master suite occupied the west wing of the same floor, my rooms the south wing. The north contained quest suites I’d seen during my initial tour. But the east wing remained a mystery, mentioned by neither Victoria nor the staff, as if it didn’t exist at all.
Today, I would solve that mystery.
I made my way through the mansion’s main floor, footsteps echoing on marble and hardwood. How strange to walk these grand hallways without Victoria’s watchful eyes tracking my movements, evaluating my posture, assessing my gait Freedom, even temporary, felt both exhilarating and unsettling after months of constant supervision.
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The main staircase swept upward in a graceful curve, its carved banister cool beneath my palm. Second floor, then third. The hallway branched in four directions, cach leading to a different wing. The corridor to the east wing ended in a heavy wooden door with an ornate handle, and as expected, it was locked,
I examined it closely, remembering, Jason’s lessons about security and access points. Not a keypad or electronic lock, but an old–fashioned key lock, the kind barely seen in homes of this caliber anymore. Deliberately old- fashioned. Deliberately personal.
A key would be needed. But where would Victoria keep a key to a door she clearly wanted to remain closed? Her office seemed the logical place to start. I made my way back down to the main floor, to the wood–paneled room where Victoria handled matters too private for her corporate headquarters. The door was unlocked, a surprise given her usual caution, but then, she likely never expected me to explore while she was gone.
Sunlight poured through tall windows, illuminating the space that perfectly reflected its owner: elegant, Intimidating, deliberately impressive. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface bare except for a laptop and a single framed photo turned at an angle I couldn’t see from the doorway.
I hesitated at the threshold. This felt different from my curiosity about the locked wing. This was a deliberate invasion of Victoria’s private space, a breach of the trust she’d placed in me. But wasn’t she invading my privacy daily with her demands, her reshaping of my identity, her constant monitoring of my transformation?
Decision made, I crossed to the desk, immediately drawn to the framed photo. It showed a younger Victoria with her arm around a smiling young woman who could only be Sophia, tall, confident, with eyes that matched her mother’s in both color and Intensity. They stood on a beach somewhere, casual in a way I’d never seen Victoria, their matching sunglasses pushed up on their heads, genuine smiles brightening both faces.
Happy. They looked genuinely happy.
I set the photo down carefully, exactly as I’d found it, and began my search. The desk drawers yielded nothing of interest, business papers, correspondence, a spare pair of reading glasses. No keys.
Next, I examined the bookshelves lining the walls, looking for hidden compartments or safes. Nothing. The elegant cabinet bar contained only spirits and crystal glasses. The paintings, all originals by renowned artists, concealed nothing behind them.
I was about to give up when I noticed a small decorative box on one of the bookshelves, half–hidden behind leather -bound volumes. Made of carved jade with silver fittings, it seemed out of place among the business books and historical biographies.
Inside lay a single brass key, antique and heavy in my palm. It looked exactly like what would fit the lock to the east wing.
Heart beating faster, I returned to the third floor, key clutched tightly in my hand. At the locked door, I hesitated again, knowing I was crossing a boundary that might change my relationship with Victoria forever.
But I’d come too far to turn back. I inserted the key, feeling the mechanism shift as I turned it. A soft click, and the door swung open into darkness.
The corridor beyond was shadowed, curtains drawn over windows that would have illuminated it naturally. 1 fumbled for a light switch, finding one just inside the doorway. Soft lighting revealed a hallway lined with framed photographs, each capturing moments in Sophia’s life.
Sophia as a toddler in a frilly dress. Sophia in a cap and gown, proudly holding a diploma. Sophia laughing on a sailboat, wind catching her hair. In each image, her resemblance to me was undeniable, despite the cosmetic changes I’d undergone. We shared the same eyes, the same smile, similar builds.
Chapter 19
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No wonder Victoria had been drawn to me after seeing my photo. The resemblance was unsettling even to me.
The hallway opened into a small sitting area, preserved like a museum exhibit. Magazines from ten years ago lay on coffee tables. A half–finished chess game sat frozen in time, pieces dust less despite the years, suggesting regular cleaning. Two teacups rested on saucers beside the chess board, as if the players had just stepped away momentarily.
Victoria and Sophia’s last game together? The thought sent a shiver through me.
Three doors led from the sitting area. I tried the first, finding a small study with a desk covered in engineering textbooks and mathematical journals. Notes in a neat, precise handwriting filled notebooks stacked beside a laptop that looked ancient by today’s standards. A MIT sweatshirt hung over the back of the chair.
Sophia’s study area. Preserved exactly as she’d left it a decade ago.
The second door revealed a bathroom, everything feminine and elegant. Makeup still arranged on the counter, perfume bottles lined up precisely, a toothbrush in a holder beside the sink.
The third door, slightly ajar, took my breath away.
Sophia’s bedroom. A large, beautiful space decorated in shades of blue and silver, dominated by a queen–sized bed with an intricate wrought iron headboard. Sunlight streamed through a gap in heavy curtains, illuminating dust mates dancing in the air.
I stepped inside, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space. The room smelled faintly of lavender and something else, a lingering trace of perfume, perhaps. Everything was immaculate, from the precisely made bed to the organized bookshelf to the desk with pens arranged at perfect angles.
Photos covered one wall, Sophia with friends, with Victoria, with a handsome young man who must have been Oliver Preston, the fiancé whose family had arranged her fatal “accident.” In many of the images, Sophia wore the same silver pendant Victoria had given me, the phoenix rising from flames.
On the bedside table sat a framed photo of Sophia and Victoria, arms around each other, foreheads touching, smiling with such genuine joy that my chest ached looking at it. The kind of mother–daughter relationship I’d never had, never even witnessed between Rose and my own mother.
I picked up the photo, studying the happiness captured there. Victoria,cold, demanding, perfectionistic Victoria, looked transformed by love for her daughter. Softer. More human.
“What are you doing in here?”
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