The diner’s fluorescent lights buzzed louder than they should’ve—like angry bees trapped in her skull. Camille winced, flinching. Her ears were still ringing. That man’s voice had cracked open the whole place.
“Tara!”
He was still there. Standing in the doorway like a hurricane that had decided to wear a wrinkled suit. His face was red, sweaty. Tie hanging off his neck like he’d been yanked out of somewhere important. Or maybe just drunk. Or pissed.
The smell of grease mixed with Tara’s perfume—too much floral, sharp, choking—and Camille’s stomach twisted. Nausea burned up her throat. Her vision blinked at the edges like someone had pressed pause on her brain.
Tara.
She’d turned, heels scraping like nails on a blackboard. Her coat flared like she was stepping onto a goddamn runway, but her face… her face cracked. Just for a second. Camille saw it—the flicker. Fear. Real fear.
And that’s what scared Camille the most.
Ellie’s broken crayon lay there, snapped in half like a snapped bone. Red wax smearing across the paper like blood. The silence was a vacuum. Ellie’s soft gasp echoed louder than a scream inside Camille’s ribs.
Her palms were soaked in sweat now. The mug she'd gripped earlier? Forgotten. Her fingers were fists, shaking.
Her thoughts were a mess.
Who is this guy? Why is he yelling like that? Why am I still sitting here? Why didn't I leave the second it all went sideways?
Tara hissed out a sharp breath. “David,” she said through clenched teeth, not even looking at the little girl in the booth. “Not now.”
She took a step toward him. Coat swished. Air shifted. Camille nearly gagged on her perfume again.
Her knees buckled a little.
She almost got up. Almost grabbed Ellie and ran. But her body wasn’t listening. Her legs were jelly, her sneakers superglued to the sticky tile. Every instinct screamed get out. But Ellie… Ellie was staring at her. Wide-eyed. Trusting. Needing.
Why’s she looking at me like that? I’m nobody, baby. I don’t belong here. This ain’t my fight.
But her throat burned. That same stupid want tangled up in her chest—guilt and… something more. Something selfish. Something sharp.
Adrian moved. Fast. Rigid. His whole body like a loaded gun.
“Get out,” he growled.
Camille flinched. The sound of his voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked like thunder. Rough. Shaking. Like something had finally snapped. He glanced at Ellie—fast—then at Tara. Then at David. That name tasted like rust. Like blood in her mouth.
“Both of you. Now.”
But he didn’t look sure. His shoulders were trembling, just a little. His fists clenched so tight Camille could almost hear bone grinding. His jaw twitched. Like he was pretending to be fine when everything inside was caving in.
And God help her—Camille wanted to touch him. Stupid, idiot, girl. She wanted to say it was okay. That he wasn’t alone.
But he wasn’t hers.
He’s not yours. He’s not yours. He’s not—
“Who the hell are you?” David barked.
His eyes locked onto Adrian like a dog about to bite. Then… he saw Camille. And the way his lip curled? She’d seen that look before. From social workers. From judges. From the men in gas stations when she didn’t have enough change.
He pointed. At her.
At her. Like she was gum stuck to someone else’s shoe.
“And who’s she?”
Camille’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Her skin burned. Her palms were wet. She wiped them on her jeans without thinking. Left damp streaks like proof she didn’t belong here. Her heart was racing. Her thoughts were—God, they were just gone.
She wanted to yell. I’m no one! I’m just trying to help! I didn’t ask for this!
But her throat was dry. Like dust.
“She’s—” Adrian started, then stopped. His voice cracked. He turned to look at her. And for a second, the anger dropped.
His eyes—God. The way he looked at her. Like she was the only thing left keeping him upright. Like he was begging her not to run.
“She’s helping me. With Ellie.”
His voice was softer. Broken. Scared.
Helping.
That’s what this was.
A job.
A lie.
A role.
But Ellie’s hand slid into hers under the table. Small. Cold. Trembling.
It felt like the ground shifted.
And Camille? She hated herself for what it made her feel.
Wanted. Needed. Dangerous words.
Tara laughed. Bitter. Mean. She could cut glass with her tone.
“Helping? That’s what we’re calling it now?” She flicked her eyes at Camille like flicking dirt off her shoes. “You hired some stray to play mommy?”
That word hit harder than a slap.
Stray.
Like a mutt in an alley.
Camille’s insides collapsed. Her knees wobbled again. She gripped the table. Dug her nails in. The wood bit back. But it helped. Just barely.
Foster homes came flooding back. Too fast. Cold beds. Fights for toothpaste. Being reminded, over and over, that she wasn’t anyone’s anything.
“Stop it, Tara,” Adrian snapped.
Louder. Cracked around the edges. He stepped closer. His face pale. Eyes on fire.
“You don’t get to do this. You left. You left her.”
His voice almost broke on her. His hand pointed at Ellie—who was curled up, arms over her head, crayons scattered like something sacred was ruined.
Camille’s chest split open.
There it was.
Grief.
Anger.
Longing.
Not just for Ellie. For everything she never had. For every door that was closed before she could knock.
David stepped forward.
The sound of his shoe squeaking made Camille jump.
“You don’t get to talk to her like that, Cole,” he snapped. “What, you think you’re some kind of saint now? Playing house with her?” He jerked his thumb at Camille again.
Camille’s breath caught. Her vision blurred. She wanted to get up, run, scream, something. But Ellie’s hand was still in hers. Holding on like she meant it.
I’m not playing. I swear I’m not.
But she was.
Wasn’t she?
A liar with a job. A warm body in a pretend family.
“Enough!” Camille’s voice broke free like a punch.
Too loud.
Too shaky.
Everyone stared.
She stood. Her chair scraped back like a warning. Her bag hit the floor. Loud. Hard.
Her face burned. Her eyes stung. Her body shook.
“Just—just stop. All of you.”
She looked down. Ellie’s face was wet. Lip trembling.
That’s what broke her.
“She doesn’t need this. She doesn’t—” Her voice cracked. Her throat burned. The rest of the sentence drowned inside her.
She covered her mouth. Turned her face. Breathed.
I can’t do this. I’m not enough. I never was.
Adrian stepped forward. Looked at her. Like she was the last sane thing in the world.
“Camille,” he whispered.
It barely reached her.
“Please. Stay.”
His hand moved—twitching like he wanted to reach for her. But he didn’t.
That hurt worse than anything else.
Tara scoffed. “Oh, now you’re begging her?”
She turned to David. “Let’s go. This is pathetic.”
But David didn’t move.
His eyes were on Ellie.
And something in them…
It was wrong.
Wrong like rot under fresh paint. Wrong like the kind of danger you don’t see ‘til it’s already too late.
His jaw clenched.
“Ellie’s mine too,” he said.
The words were low. Measured. Heavy.
Camille felt the world tilt.
“You don’t get to keep her from me, Cole.”
He stepped forward.
Ellie whimpered. Her little fingers squeezed Camille’s hand so tight it hurt.
Adrian went still. Face drained. Not blinking.
Camille stopped breathing.
Her ears rang. The lights flickered.
Her body screamed move. But she couldn’t.
David’s words sat in the air like a live grenade.
And Camille finally understood—
She was inside something huge. Something broken.
Something she might not survive.
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