Camela woke up weak, her body sore, her skin crawling with a filth she couldn't wash away. The king-size bed beneath her looked like a shrine to last night's horror. Every wrinkle in the sheets screamed what she wanted to forget.Camela felt disgusted due to the fact that she moaned and creased the back of Lincoln when he almost reached his climax.
"Good morning, miss," a maid's voice cut through the silence, soft but steady. She carried a silver tray, coffee steaming, herbs arranged with precision.
Camela glared, her throat too tight to speak. Tears slipped, blurring the faint makeup streaking her cheeks.
"Madam, is everything alright?"
Her voice cracked. "I need to leave. Now."
"I'm sorry, missus," the maid said, bowing slightly, "but you can't stand until your strength returns."
"What?" Camela's voice rose, a broken whisper. "I'm not his guest—I'm one of Lincoln's toys. Let me go."
She shoved weakly, but the maid's hands, firm and unyielding, pinned her back with unsettling ease. After failing again and again, Camela's arms fell limp. The bitter herbs brushed her lips, and with trembling defiance fading into exhaustion, she swallowed.
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[Camela's POV]
I sat behind the wheel of my Mercedes, the cold air seeping through the cracks as dark clouds smothered the sky, robbing the sun of its shine. She leaned her head against the glass window, staring blankly at the bustling streets of Shah Hills.
Tears slid down my cheeks, mingling with the drizzle that streaked the windows. When the rain thickened into a storm, so did my grief. At the climax of the downpour, I could no longer hold myself together. I broke, sobbing into the headrest of the seat as the storm outside raged with me.
But when the skies calmed, my tears refused to stop.
By the time I arrived home, I was drained. The moment I stepped inside, my chest tightened—the living room no longer bore my touch. The soft tones I had chosen were gone, replaced by stiff antiques, heavy curtains, and a cold grandeur that screamed of only one person: my mother-in-law.
The maids darted about while the kitchen bustled with chefs dressed in immaculate whites, each one from the finest restaurants across Shah Hills.
"What's going on here?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"Mrs. Banks—the old lady—ordered us to prepare a variety of dishes," one of the maids answered cautiously.
"She's here?" I asked, my tone laced with unease.
"Oh yes, I'm here," came the sharp reply. Samson's mother appeared, her presence heavy and her arrogance sharper than her perfume. "Someone has to cater for my son, since you've clearly abandoned him."
"Mom, that wasn't necessary," I managed, my patience fraying. "I take good care of your son—better than anyone. I've been the one feeding him, supporting him, and even you."
She scoffed, her words like daggers. "You? You've done nothing but leave him. You left this house, you left your duty. And now you come back looking tired and useless."
I swallowed hard, exhaustion pressing down on me. "I'm sorry, but I'm done arguing. My mother is suffering in the hospital, and I need rest. I travel tomorrow."
Without waiting for her retort, I walked away, refusing to fuel the fire.
Behind me, the tension lingered like smoke. Samson had two mothers—an adopted one and the woman who had given him life. The biological one seldom appeared, but whenever she did, she brought trouble in her wake. And tonight, her storm had arrived.