Chapter 67 67. Make Everything Worse
The days after the bathtub passed in a haze of quiet domesticity that felt almost surreal.
We'd returned to the city, and the media drama with my mom has died completely. Lucien worked from the penthouse, taking calls and video conferences from his home office while I tried to figure out what normal looked like. I moved back in properly. Maya had helped me pack up my apartment, both of us crying as we folded clothes and boxed up books.
"You're doing the right thing," she'd said, hugging me tight. "No matter how complicated everything else is, being with someone who loves you just makes it better, Cami."
Now my things were mixed with his. My hoodies beside his tailored suits. My paperbacks filling the perfect, too-empty spaces on his shelves. My toothbrush beside his in the bathroom.
It felt like playing house. Like someone could yank the curtains open at any moment and end the fantasy.
Except Lucien kept proving it wasn't a fantasy at all.
Little things, constant things. Coffee made exactly how I liked it appearing on the nightstand each morning. His hand finding mine on the table during meals. The way he'd pull me into his lap while working, pressing kisses to my temple between conference calls.
And the reading.
That first night back, we'd been curled up on the couch after dinner. I was scrolling through my new phone, and he'd asked what I was doing.
"Just... looking at something I wrote," I'd admitted. I logged in that day to access it and write a few more lines.
His eyes had lit up. "Can I see?"
I had hesitated. No one had ever read my writing. Not even Maya. It felt too personal and revealing. But this was Lucien, who'd seen me at my absolute worst and hadn't flinched.
So I'd handed him my phone.
He'd started reading right there, and I'd watched his face change. Surprise, then intrigue, then something darker as he got deeper into the story. It was a dark piece, a stalker romance with murder elements that I'd been working on for almost three years.
"Camila." His voice had been rough when he looked up. "This is incredible."
"You don't have to-"
"I'm not being nice. This is genuinely brilliant." He'd scrolled back to the beginning. "Why haven't you shown this to anyone?"
I'd shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "I just write for myself."
"Bullshit. This needs to be published."
That night, he'd read chapters aloud to me in bed, his deep voice bringing my words to life in a way that made my heart beat faster. He'd critique certain scenes, not meanly, but thoughtfully, offering suggestions that actually improved the story.
It became our thing. Every evening, after dinner, we'd settle on the couch or in bed, and he'd read my work to me. Sometimes we'd debate character motivations or plot holes. Other times, he'd just read while I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling the rumble of his voice through his chest.
Until tonight, when the doorbell rang.
Everything happened too fast.
One moment I was on the couch, the next, two officers were stepping into the penthouse, their faces professionally blank.
"Camila Sterling?" the taller one asked, though he clearly already knew.
"Yes."
"You're under arrest for vehicular manslaughter." He pulled out handcuffs. "You have the right to remain silent-"
"On what grounds?" Lucien moved between us.
"Step aside, Mr. Hayes."
"Like hell I will. What evidence do you have?"
"Sir, if you interfere, we'll arrest you for obstruction."
The words felt distant, like they were happening to someone else. Vehicular manslaughter. This only meant one thing; I wasn't hallucinating when I hit someone on the road.
"Camila." Lucien's voice cut through my panic. "Don't say anything. Do you understand? Not a single word until my lawyers arrive."
I nodded, numb, as the officer turned me around and cuffed my wrists.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
The rest of the Miranda rights faded to static. All I could focus on was Lucien's face as they led me toward the door. The fury, the fear, the helplessness.
"I'm right behind you," he called out. "Don't say anything!"
The interrogation room was exactly like the movies. Gray walls, metal table, fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly. I sat barefoot in Lucien's t-shirt and pajama pants, hands trembling in my lap.
The door opened. A woman in a dark suit entered, followed by a younger male officer carrying a file.
"Miss Sterling, I'm Detective Nora." She sat across from me, opening the file. "Do you know why you're here?"
I stayed silent.
"We have evidence placing you at the scene of a fatal hit-and-run three weeks ago. Your vehicle was found with significant front-end damage..."
Three weeks ago. The night I escaped Ronan's basement.
"We've already impounded your vehicle for forensic analysis," the male officer added. "The black box data shows you were traveling above speed limit. No braking before impact."
My stomach turned. I wanted to explain about my kidnap, how I panicked, how I had stopped and seen no body, but Lucien's voice echoed in my head.
Not a single word.
"Look, Miss Sterling." Detective Nora leaned forward, her voice softening. "I get it. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you panicked. If you cooperate now, tell us what happened, we can work with the DA. Get you a reduced sentence. Maybe even pardon, depending on circumstances."
The words tempted me. They dangled freedom in front of me like bait, but I pressed my lips together and looked away.
"Don't you feel guilty?" Nora's voice hardened. "For the innocent life you took?"
My eyes snapped back to hers.
"Sarah Mitchell. Twenty-eight years old. Single mother." She pulled photos from the file, sliding them across the table. "She had a six-year-old daughter, Emma, who's now an orphan because of you."
The photos showed a woman. Dark hair, young face, smiling in one picture with a little girl on her lap. Then crime scene photos. A body in a ditch, mangled and broken.
And my breath caught. Not because of the blood.
Because I recognized her... from months ago.
The abandoned building where I'd watched Ronan shoot someone to scare me. The woman with the side-shaved hair, hardened face, and the same woman Edmund and I abandoned.
Wasn't she supposed to be dead? Ronan must've killed her, no?
"That can't be right," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "This woman, she's been dead for months. I saw-"
I cut myself off, but it was too late.
Nora's eyes sharpened. "You saw what, Miss Sterling?"
"Nothing. I-"
"You saw her die? Before you hit her with your car?" Nora leaned forward. "Were you stalking her?"
"No! I was hallucinating. There was no one on the road. I didn't hit anyone-"
"Hallucinating." The detective exchanged a glance with her partner. "Were you under the influence of drugs that night, Miss Sterling?"
Oh God. What had I just done?
"I-no-I don't know. Someone-I don't-"
"So you're admitting you had drugs in your system when you got behind the wheel?"
"That's not what I-"
"And you're claiming this victim has been dead for months, which means you must have seen her before. How did you see her die, Miss Sterling?"
My mouth opened and closed. Every word I said was making it worse. But I couldn't stop, couldn't think straight.
"I want my lawyer," I finally whispered.
Detective Nora sat back, a small satisfied smile on her face.
"Of course. But just so you know, everything you just said? That's on record now."
I'd just made everything so much worse.