Chapter 76 76. Camila Is A Murderer
I held the manuscript against my chest as I left the printing shop. Three hundred and forty-two pages. My work, my nights, my mistakes, all bound together. The weight of it made my arms tighten, like I was carrying something alive.
The publishing house rose ahead of me. It already made me feel small even before I walked inside. I adjusted my floral dress to hide the ankle monitor, fixed my hair, then pushed through the doors.
The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor stretched forever. I kept rehearse-smiling at the reflection in the mirrored walls. My palms were damp on the manuscript by the time the receptionist told me to wait.
Other writers passed in and out, confident or hopeful or terrified. I couldn't tell which one I was.
"Miss Sterling?" A woman with severe gray hair and sharper glasses approached. "I'm Margaret Winters. Follow me."
Her office felt like a showroom. White walls, silver accents, everything carefully placed. I sat across from her and set the manuscript down gently.
"So." She settled into her chair. "You have a manuscript for me."
"Yes. A dark romance with thriller elements. The protagonist becomes obsessed with a man and kills for him without his knowledge. It deals with obsession, morality, consequences. I've written three hundred pages so far and I'm planning a trilogy."
Margaret pulled the manuscript toward her and opened to the first page. Her expression didn't shift. She skimmed, flipped, skimmed again. I felt each second land in my stomach.
She read another section, then closed the manuscript with two fingers.
"The writing is boring."
My heart shattered. I sat straighter without meaning to.
"The plot is predictable." She flipped through the pages again like she was searching for something that had already confirmed itself. "I see this kind of story every week."
"I've worked on it for three years, and you didn't even read a page."
"I can tell." She leaned back. "It feels like writing that's been rewritten too many times. Overloaded here, empty there. The protagonist is unlikeable in ways you didn't intend."
"With some editorial guidance, I could fix those issues."
"Perhaps. But let's be honest." She lowered her gaze to me, not the manuscript. "You're Camila Sterling."
My breath stopped.
"The kitchen girl who seduced Lucien Hayes. The daughter whose own mother accused her of murder. The woman currently out on bail for vehicular manslaughter, wearing a monitor under that dress you think hides it."
Cold spread through me. My case wasn't public. How did she know?
"My trial hasn't happened. I'm innocent until proven guilty."
"Legally, yes." She waved a hand. "But this is Meridian Publishing. We represent prestige, not scandal. Your name alone would drag us into the mud."
"My writing has nothing to do with my personal life."
"Doesn't it?" She smirked. "A woman accused of killing someone writes about a woman who kills for love. How convenient and marketable."
"It's fiction."
"Is it?" Margaret stood. Her decision was already made, and she wasn't hiding it. "Here's advice. Stop pretending you're a writer. Focus on staying out of prison."
She lifted the manuscript and threw it. It hit the desk, split, and scattered across the floor. My hard work, now a cascade of loose pages and shattered dreams.
My body went still before it moved. I crouched and gathered the sheets with shaking hands. The ankle monitor dug into my skin as I crawled across her cold floor.
"We're done here," she said, already turning to her computer.
The assistant who'd scheduled my appointment watched with pity from her desk as I left, arms full of crumpled pages, the broken binding dangling from my grip.
In the elevator, the doors closed and the silence pressed against me.
I looked down at the ruined manuscript in my arms and felt nothing but a slow, steady anger that felt stronger than humiliation.
Not anger at Margaret. Not really.
At Ronan. At this entire situation. At being trapped and helpless while my life fell apart around me.
By the time I got home, it had settled into something sharp.
Maya looked up from her laptop the moment I walked in. Her gaze dropped to the ruined manuscript and she got the memo.
"They rejected it?"
"She did." I dropped the pages on the table. "Called my writing predictable and threw it on the floor."
"What?" Maya's voice rose. "Who does that?"
"Margaret Winters. Senior Acquisitions Editor." I sank into the couch, the anger sitting heavy behind my ribs. "She also called me a murderer."
"That bitch!"
"She's probably right, though." I looked at the monitor on my ankle. "Who wants to publish someone accused of manslaughter? Whose mother killed herself?"
"Camila. Stop." Maya moved closer. "One woman doesn't get to end your dream."
"I'm not ending anything, but I'm done waiting for Lucien's lawyers to magically fix my life. I'm done being helpless while Ronan plays games."
"What are you planning?"
The doorbell rang before I could answer.
"Lucien?" She asked, but I shrugged, doubting that.
Maya checked. I heard the person outside say my name. When Maya returned, she had a bouquet of red roses.
I already knew what the card would say before she pulled it out.
'I love you so much, baby. Can't wait till we are finally together ~ R.' Exactly like last night.
"This psycho." Maya stared at the card. "It has to be Ronan, right? Who else would be signing with R?"
"It doesn't matter." An idea was crystallizing in my mind. Dangerous, probably reckless, but I was so tired of being the victim. "I'm going to confront him."
"Hold it right there, miss girl."
"I'll get him to confess. I'll record it."
"He'll search you like last time. He'll take your phone."
"Not if I call you before I walk in. You stay on the line and record on your end. Your recording is the one that matters in court."
Maya opened her mouth, closed it, then slowly nodded. "That could actually work. But what if he hurts you?"
"He needs me alive to manipulate Lucien."
"Then at least tell Lucien first."
I shook my head. "He'll stop me. He always wants to handle things himself, but this is my life. My freedom. I need to do this myself. I'm not just going to sit here and wait to be saved. Not anymore."
"Cami..." Maya studied my face, then sighed. "Fine. But we plan this carefully. And you are going with a taser."
"Deal." I was so determined to get this done and over with. I looked down at that mocking R signature.
You'd be the one sleeping in a cell next, Ronan.
The knock on the door hours later made my heart jump. I knew who it was. I'd been expecting him and Maya had thankfully decided to get dinner outside to give us space for when he arrived.
"Hey, beauti-" I hugged him before he could finish his words and step inside properly.
His body was warm and solid, his breath brushing my ear.
"I missed you," he muffled against my hair.
"I missed you too."
We moved to the couch. He stretched out on top of me, his head on my chest. I ran my fingers through his hair. I ran my fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way he liked.
A soft sound escaped him, almost a purr, and his eyes closed, but the tension in his shoulders didn't. The way his jaw was clenched even in this moment of supposed relaxation.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
His eyes opened. "You had me worried today."
"What?"
"You didn't reply to my text. Didn't answer my calls for hours." He shifted, propping his chin on my chest so he could look up at me. "Where were you?"
The humiliation from the publishing house still clung to me, and I was ashamed to reveal it.
I'd wanted to surprise him with good news of me bagging a publishing deal. With something other than my scandal he'd gotten tangled up in.
But look how that turned out.
"I was out with Maya on a best friend date and lost track of time."
Lucien's gaze searched mine. Then he opened his mouth and bit down on my breast through my shirt.
"Ow!" I squirmed. "What was that for?"
"Don't scare me like that again. I thought something happened to you."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."
He bit down again, this time on the other breast.
"Lucien!" But I was laughing now. "I already apologized!"
"That wasn't about the apology." His hand slid under my shirt, warm against my stomach. I drew in a breath. "Is Maya home?"
"No."
"When is she coming back?" His fingers pushed my shirt up.
"Whenever I call her to..." My words dissolved as his tongue traced a hot line from my belly button upward, following the path his hands had taken. "Tell her you've... oh god... left."
"Good."