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Alexander smiled slowly, the way he smiled before he ruined someone in a boardroom.
“Well,” he said. “This is unexpected.”
Natalia crossed her arms. “You told me she wouldn’t be here.”
Alexander did not look at her. His eyes stayed on Camila.
“I thought my wife was resting.”
Camila forced her voice to stay even. “Your wife was awake.”
His jaw tightened.
Natalia stepped forward. “Alex, what is going on? She says you filmed her without her knowing.”
Alexander sighed, as if disappointed by everyone’s lack of discipline. “Natalia, go downstairs.”
“No.”
His face changed.
It was subtle, but Camila recognized it. The mask slipping. The temperature dropping. The room bending toward punishment.
“I said go downstairs.”
Natalia’s confidence vanished. For the first time, she looked afraid of him.
Camila saw it.
And Alexander saw Camila see it.
That was when the violence began.
He crossed the room so quickly Natalia stumbled back. He grabbed Camila’s wrist and dragged her toward the office. She tried to twist away, but he shoved her against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
“You opened the cabinet,” he said through clenched teeth.
Camila’s eyes widened.
Natalia gasped. “Alex!”
He turned on her. “Leave.”
Natalia did not move.
Camila tried to run toward the elevator, but Alexander caught her by the shoulder and threw her into the living room. She hit the edge of the coffee table, pain exploding through her side. White lilies scattered across the rug.
“Did you take pictures?” he demanded.
Camila crawled backward.
He saw her phone in her hand.
His face went dark.
She tried to clutch it to her chest, but he kicked it away. It slid under the piano.
Then he grabbed the mesquite cane from beside the fireplace, the one with the silver handle he used after a skiing injury and later kept because it made him look distinguished in magazine photos.
Natalia screamed, “Stop!”
Alexander raised the cane.
The first blow struck Camila’s shoulder.
The second hit her ribs.
The third caught the side of her head when she tried to curl into herself.
After that, the room dissolved into sound: Natalia screaming, Alexander breathing hard, glass breaking, rain hitting the windows, Camila’s own voice somewhere far away begging him to stop.
Then silence.
Camila lay on the embroidered rug, blood soaking into the pale threads beneath her face.
Alexander stood over her, chest heaving.
Natalia had her hand over her mouth, frozen in horror.
For one second, even Alexander seemed shocked by what he had done.
Then the calculation returned.
He looked at Natalia. “You didn’t see this.”
She backed away. “You almost killed her.”
“She attacked me,” he said.
Natalia stared at him.
“She found out about us,” he continued, voice sharpening. “She became hysterical. She grabbed the cane. I tried to stop her.”
“You’re insane,” Natalia whispered.
Alexander stepped toward her. “No. I am the only person in this room who knows how to survive what just happened.”
Camila heard him through the dark haze of pain.
Survive.
He was already making himself the victim.
Natalia ran.
Not to the elevator.
To the piano.
She dropped to her knees and reached under it, grabbing Camila’s phone before Alexander realized what she was doing.
“Natalia,” he said softly.
That softness was more frightening than his shouting.
Natalia bolted toward the elevator.
Alexander lunged, but she slipped inside just as the doors began closing. He slammed his palm against the metal, furious, then turned back toward Camila.
Her eyes were half open.
He crouched beside her and touched her cheek with false tenderness.
“You should have stayed quiet,” he whispered.
Then he called 911.
When the operator answered, Alexander’s voice broke perfectly.
“My wife fell,” he said. “Please, send help. I think she’s hurt. She’s been unstable lately. I don’t know what happened.”
Camila could not speak.
But somewhere outside the building, Natalia was already making another call.
Not to the police.
To the first number listed in Camila’s emergency contacts.
Rod Whitmore.
Rodrigo Whitmore was in a private dining room in Miami when his phone rang. He almost ignored the unknown number. Then he saw the second call come immediately after the first.
He answered with irritation.
“Who is this?”
A woman’s voice shook on the other end. “Is this Camila’s brother?”
Rod went still.
“Yes.”
“My name is Natalia Vance. I’m so sorry. Alexander hurt her. He beat her. She’s bleeding. They’re taking her to Lenox Hill. He’s lying to the police. He’s going to say she’s unstable. She found papers. I have her phone.”
Rod stood so fast his chair slammed back.
Around the table, executives stopped talking.
“Where is my sister?” he asked.
“Lenox Hill Hospital. Please hurry.”
Rod did not ask more.
He called his youngest brother first.
“Damian,” he said when the line connected. “Camila’s in the hospital. Alexander did it.”
For one breath, there was no sound.
Then Damian Whitmore’s voice came through, low and deadly.
“I’m moving.”