Chapter 62
The charity auction for the Children’s Medical Research Foundation had transformed the Westmore Hotel’s grand ballroom into a glittering showcase of wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over Manhattan’s elite as they mingled with champagne flutes in hand.
Camille stood near the silent auction display, maintaining the practiced smile Victoria had taught her. Her midnight blue gown and Alexander’s diamond necldace completed the image of Camille Kane, heiress to the Kane fortune. To everyone watching, she appeared perfectly at ease.
Inside, her nerves twisted like live wires. The event coordinator had just informed her that Richard and Margaret Lewis had arrived, her parents, though they had no idea their “dead” daughter stood in the same room.
“Ms. Kane,” Rebecca murmured, appearing at her side. “They’ve been seated at table twelve, directly across from the stage. Would you prefer to move your placement?”
Camille sipped champagne, buying seconds to compose herself. “No. Victoria would want me to remain as planned ”
“Victoria would want you to avoid unnecessary risks,” Rebecca countered.
“Perhaps. But Victoria isn’t here.”
Rebecca nodded. “I’ll stay close, just in case.”
As her assistant moved away, Camille allowed her gaze to drift across the room, finding her parents. The sight hit harder than expected. Nineteen months since she’d last see them, the night she’d confronted Rose about Stefan. Her mother looked older, shadows beneath her eyes that makeup couldn’t conceal Her father stood straight- backed as always, but new lines marked his face. Was it grief that had aged them? Or Rose’s scandals?
A waiter passed with champagne. Camille exchanged her empty glass for a full one, steadying her trembling hands. She should move away. Should minimize the risk of direct interaction. Should protect the revenge plan she and Victoria had executed so meticulously.
Instead, she drifted closer, drawn by something stronger than caution. Not love, that emotion had burned away months ago. Not forgiveness, that was beyond her now. Perhaps simply curiosity about what had become of the people who had once been her world.
She hadn’t counted on her mother’s uncanny ability to sense when someone was watching. Before Camille could retreat, Margaret turned, eyes sweeping the crowd before settling directly on her. Their gazes locked across the ballroom
No recognition showed in Margaret’s face, only polite interest. But as Camille held her stare a heartbeat too long, something shifted in her mother’s expression. A slight furrowing of her brow. A tilt of her head. The look of someone encountering a puzzle.
Camille turned away first, pulse racing. Too much risk. She moved toward a display of artwork, absorption in a landscape painting she barely saw.
pretending
“Beautiful brushwork,” a voice observed beside her. “The artist captures light in a way that reminds me of Turner.
Camille’s blood froze. Her mother’s voice. So achingly faminar. She turned slowly, face composed in a mask of polite interest.
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“You have a good eye,” she replied, amazed at how steady her voice remained.
Margaret Lewis stood closer than Camille had realized, elegant in a navy dress that brought out her blue eyes, eyes that had once looked at Camille with love, then disappointment, then grief.
“Margaret Lewis,” her mother introduced herself, extending a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, though you look remarkably familiar ”
Camille accepted the handshake, the brief contact sending lightning through her body.
“Camille Kane,” she responded, the name strange on her tongue when speaking to someone who had once known her by another name entirely.
“Ah! I’ve seen your photos in the business journals. You’ve made quite an impression since your public debut.”
Camille smiled, Victoria’s coaching allowing her to maintain the conversation while emotional earthquakes shook her internal landscape. “I’ve had excellent guidance.”
“Your mother is certainly a force of nature. My husband and I have admired her business acumen for years, though we’ve never had the pleasure of working directly with Kane Industries.”
The mention drew Camille’s gaze past her mother’s shoulder. Richard Lewis was watching them, expression unreadable from this distance.
“Perhaps that will change in the future,” Camille said carefully. “Kane Industries is always seeking new partnerships.”
Margaret tilted her head slightly, that puzzled look returning. “Forgive me for saying so, but you remind me of someone. I can’t quite place who.”
Danger. Victoria’s voice echoed in her memory: “If anyone from your past life shows unusual interest or mentions similarity, end the interaction immediately.”
But some reckless part of her couldn’t resist pushing further.
“I’ve been told I have one of those faces,” Camille said lightly. “Familiar without being recognizable.”
“No, it’s more specific than that.” Margaret studied Camille’s features. “Something about your expressions. The way you tilt your head when listening. It’s quite striking
I
Camille’s heart pounded loudly. Dr. Torres had changed her appearance, sharpened cheekbones, refined her nose, altered her jawline, but no surgeon could change the mannerisms engrained since childhood.
“Love.” Richard Lewis appeared beside his wife. “The Hendersons are looking for us.”
His eyes met Camille’s briefly, recognition completely absent. The man who had taught her to ride a bike, who had checked her homework, who had walked her down the aisle, looked at her as if she were a perfect stranger.
It cut deeply.
“Richard Lewis,” he introduced himself with a quick handshake. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
“Ms. Kane is Victoria Kane’s daughter,” Margaret explained, still studying Camille. “The one everyone’s been talking about.”
“Ah, of course. Your work with the TechVault acquisition was impressive. Quite a debut into the corporate world.”
“Thank you,” Camille responded, grateful for the shift to professional territory. “Though much of the credit belongs to the team behind the scenes.”
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“Modest as well as accomplished,” Margaret observed with smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A rare combination these days.”
Something in het mother’s tone raised warning flags. That wasn’t social pleasantry, it was assessment. Margaret might not recognize her daughter, but something about Camille Kane had triggered her curiosity.
Rebecca materialized at Camille’s side. “Ms. Kane, Mr. Harington is asking about your bid on the Wyeth painting. He seems quite determined to outbid you.”
A perfect exit. Camille turned to her parents with her practiced smile. “Duty calls. It was a pleasure meeting you both”
“The pleasure was ours,” Richard replied automatically, already scanning the room.
But Margaret caught Camille’s arm lightly. The unexpected contact sent a shock through Camille’s system, how many times had her mother reached for her exactly this way?
“I hope we’ll have a chance to speak again,” Margaret said quietly. “Perhaps at the Metropolitan Museum gala next month? I believe Kane Industries usually sponsors a table.”
Not social politeness but a deliberate attempt to establish another meeting. Another opportunity to solve the puzzle Camille représented.
“Perhaps,” she managed, withdrawing her arm. “Though my schedule stays rather unpredictable.”
Margaret nodded, apparently satisfied. “Until next time, then ”
As Camille walked away, she felt her mother’s gaze following her. Rebecca kept pace beside her, murmuring low. “That was dangerous, Victoria would not have approved.”
“Victoria isn’t here,” Camille repeated, though her earlier confidence had faltered. “And sometimes risks yield valuable information.”
“What information did you gain besides confirming they don’t recognize you?”
“My mother senses something, Not recognition, exactly. More like… familiarity she can’t place.”
“All the more reason to avoid further contact,” Rebecca pointed out. “If she begins asking questions…”
“She already has questions,” Camille interrupted. “The question is what she’ll do with them.”
The evening continued, Camille performing her role flawlessly, bidding on auction items, making small talk with business contacts, donating an additional fifty thousand dollars. Throughout it all, she maintained awareness of her parents, careful to keep adequate distance.
They left early, her father checking his watch with familiar impatience. As they made their way toward the exit, Camille saw her mother pause, turning to scan the room one last time. Their eyes met briefly across the crowd. Margaret offered a small, puzzled smile before allowing her husband to guide her out. That smile, so familiar, so maternal despite the absence of recognition, sent unexpected pain through Camille’s chest.
“Are you alright?” Rebecca asked, noticing the momentary slip in Camille’s expression.
“Fine,” Camille replied automatically. “Just tired.”
Later, in her private car, Camille finally allowed herself to process the emotions she’d carefully contained. Seeing her parents up close. Hearing their voices. Speaking with them as a stranger while memories of a shared lifetime echoed in her mind.
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It should have felt triumphant, standing before them as Camille Kane, wealthy and powerful. They hadn’t recognized the daughter they’d sacrificed for Rose’s happiness. Hadn’t seen past the surgical alterations to the woman who had once been their younger child.
Instead, she felt hollow. Empty in a way that Victoria’s coaching hadn’t prepared her for
Her phone buzzed with a text from Alexander: 1 heard the Lewis family attended tonight. Are you okay?
How did he always know? How did he always sense exactly what was happening beneath her controlled exterior?
*Fine, she texted back, the lie automatic. Then, surprising herself: No. Not really.
His response came immediately: “Sometimes the most painful wounds are the ones that don’t bleed. I’m here if you need to talk.
Camille stared at the message, throat tight with emotions she’d thought safely buried. Her parents hadn’t recognized her. Had spoken with her, and seen only Camille Kane, Victoria’s mysterious daughter, a business connection worth cultivating. Not the child they’d raised.
It should have hurt less than Stefan’s destruction or Rose’s betrayal. They were her parents, but they’d made their choice long ago, chosen the daughter who played their social games perfectly over the one who never quite fit their expectations.
So why did this cut so deeply? Why did her mother’s puzzled almost–recognition hurt more than if she’d shown no interest at all?
The car approached Victoria’s mansion, security lights illuminating the manicured grounds. Inside the massive entry hall, silence greeted her. Victoria was in Tokyo. The house staff had retired. For the first time in months, Camille found herself truly alone with her thoughts.
She moved to the study, pouring herself a measure of expensive scotch. The familiar burn helped steady her nerves as she sank into a leather chair, kicking off her heels with relief.
Victoria would be furious about tonight’s interaction. Would see it as an unnecessary risk to their carefully constructed narrative. To the revenge plan they’d executed with precision
But something about seeing her parents about her mother’s puzzled scrutiny had awakened questions Camille had buried. What was she really achieving with this elaborate revenge? Was destroying Stefan’s company and Rose’s reputation truly healing the wounds they’d inflicted? Or was she simply creating new scars to layer over the old ones?
Her phone buzzed again. Alexander: *Sometimes returning to who we were means facing those who knew us then. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human.
Camille set down her glass, his words touching something raw inside her. Victoria had trained her to be perfect, untouchable, a weapon of precise destruction. Alexander seemed to see the human beneath, the woman still capable of being wounded by a mother’s puzzled gaze.
She scrolled through her phone to the secret album she rarely viewed. Photos from before, Camille Lewis smiling, with highschool friends. Camille Lewis on her wedding day, Camille Lewis with her parents at her highschool graduation, their arms around her shoulders, pride evident in their expressions.
A family that no longer existed. Parents who now chatted politely with the stranger their daughter had become. Margaret’s words echoed: “You remind me of someone. I can’t quite place who.”
What would happen if her mother did place it? If she looked at Camille Kane one day and suddenly saw Camille Lewis beneath the surgical alterations? Would there be joy at discovering her daughter lived? Hurt at the
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Chander
deception?
Camille closed the photo album. Tonight had opened doors better left shut, awakened questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Victoria would say she was losing focus, allowing sentiment to cloud their revenge strategy.
Perhaps she was right.
But as Camille moved through the silent mansion toward her suite, she couldn’t shake the image of her mother’s puzzled expression. The feeling that somewhere, buried beneath years of manipulation and favoritism, some essential connection remained, some materal instinct that recognized something familiar in a stranger’s face.
In her bathroom, Camille removed her makeup, studying her transformed features in the mirror. Dr. Torres had done masterful work, the changes subtle enough to appear natural while significant enough to create a new identity.
And yet
As she removed the last traces of mascara, Camille could almost see Camille Lewis peering through Camille Kane’s eyes. The woman she’d been still lived somewhere inside the woman she’d become.
She pulled out her phone again, staring at Alexander’s message. He alone seemed to understand the war raging beneath her carefully maintained façade.
*You were right, she texted finally. *Facing the past is harder than I expected.*
His response came immediately: The phoenix rises from ashes, but first it must acknowledge what burned. Sleep well, Camille. Tomorrow brings new choices.”
As she slipped into bed, Camille wondered what choices tomorrow might bring. Whether the glimpse of her parents would strengthen her resolve for revenge or weaker it. Whether her mother’s puzzled recognition would deepen into true understanding.
And what she would do if Margaret Lewis looked at her someday and said the words that would shatter everything: “Camille? Is it really you?”
Sleep claimed her before she found an answer, dreams filling with her mother’s searching eyes and the whispered question that followed her into darkness: “Why do I know you?”
