From Prison To My Billionaire's Embrace

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"That wine... who exactly is your husband?" His eyes, filled with a familiar po

"He's just my husband, Camden." I met his gaze, m

on't work, Clara. I know you. You used to buy me that exact vintage. Always saying it reminded you of my ambition, how it matured wit

st a whisper. "How interesting you remember that." My eyes held his, revealing nothing.

y happy? You deserve more than this. I can help you. I can get you back on your feet." His gaze swept o

simple cotton dress, though modest, was comfortable and clean. My canvas tote, worn and familiar, held not just the expensive wine, but also a book, a s

my voice clear and even. "More

ou've... changed, Clara," he finally said, his voice

of the car, the cool afternoon air a welcome touch on my skin. "Goodbye, Camden

dust and old books, a scent that was inextricably linked to my mother. I walked to the small mantelpiece in the living room, where a faded phot

"I saw him today. Camden. He thinks I'm still broken.

er used to make it. I ate at the small, round table, the chair opposite me empty, a si

om a dusty box under my bed. It was filled with pictures of a life long past, a life that felt like it belon

my shoulders, his smile bright and carefree. He had lived with us since he was a child, after his own family fell on hard times. His mother, Josephine, our housekeeper, had a complicated history with my father, but after

k eye and a broken arm, but Camden was safe. My parents were furious, then heartbroken. My mother had cried, holding me close, but my father had only looked at me with a strange mixture of pride and disappointment. Josephine, Camden' s mother, had come to our house, bowing her head in endles

, a primal scream of grief etched into the very fabric of our home. My mother, usually so composed, was on the floor, bleeding from a cut on her arm, her face a m

of adult sins. I, blinded by my love for Camden, pushed my mother away, screamed at her, asked her why she was hurting h

m my present reality, it felt fictional. After the divorce, after everything, I had burned all the pictures,

e photograph, ready to tos

was probably Christian, coming home early. A wave of relief washed

rch, under the dim light of the evening, were Camden and Hailey. Hailey

her voice a sickly sweet m