"Leave," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, though it carried a weight that made her pause.
"Gabriel, don't do this again," she sighed, taking a step closer, her fingers reaching for my lapel with the practiced intimacy that had once thrilled me. "It’s been months. She left you. She took her settlement—which was laughably small, by the way—and she vanished into some tiny studio in Brooklyn. She chose to walk away."
"She didn't walk away," I said, finally raising my eyes to meet hers. The gold ring on my left hand felt heavy, like lead, burning against my skin. "I drove her out. I traded fifteen years of grace for seven days of cheap indulgence."
Camille’s expression hardened, the delicate composure of the runway model slipping to reveal the sharp edge of a woman who saw her prize slipping through her fingers. "I was in Rome with you because you invited me, Gabriel. You bought the tickets. You handed me that dress on her birthday. Don't make me the villain in your tragic masterpiece just because your conscience finally decided to wake up."
