Chapter 3 - The Fabricated Truth
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Camille took a step backward until the small of her back hit the solid wood of the hallway doorframe.
The polished, aristocratic composure she had worn like armor for two years cracked into jagged pieces.
She pressed both hands over her rounded satin abdomen, her breathing coming fast and ragged.
She stammered that it was an orthopedic back brace prescribed by her obstetrician for severe lumbar pain.
She claimed that carrying a high-risk pregnancy had put an unbearable strain on her delicate spine.
She insisted that the medical adhesive was used to keep the orthopedic support pads firmly in place beneath her evening gown.
Elena watched the woman spin the desperate lie, noticing how Camille’s eyes darted repeatedly toward the adjoining bathroom.
Elena had worked two seasons in theatrical costume design before her husband died, and she knew stage props intimately.
The silicone strap in Marcello’s hand was unmistakable; it bore the trademark contouring ridges of a professional studio prosthetic.
Elena spoke before she could stop herself, pointing out that back braces did not have skin-tone pigment or belly-button indentations.
Camille turned on Elena with sudden, venomous fury, hissing at her to shut her mouth and know her place.
Camille snarled that a penniless caterer had no right to breathe the same air as the DeLuca family, let alone accuse her.
Marcello stood up to his full height, stepping directly into Camille’s line of sight and cutting off her words instantly.
The sheer menace in his posture was enough to freeze the room into dead silence.
He told Camille that if she spoke to Elena with that tone again, security would throw her onto Fifth Avenue in front of the press.
Camille shrank back, stunned by the cold hostility radiating from a man who had always treated her with polite courtesy.
Marcello held the torn silicone strap up between them, examining the microscopic serial number stamped along its inner edge.
He recognized the name of the boutique prosthetic studio in London that catered exclusively to film productions and private clients.
The truth settled over his face like a heavy iron mask, erasing every trace of the gentle man who had entered the room.
He realized that the ultrasound scans, the monthly reports, and the glowing doctor appointments had all been an elaborate theatrical performance.
He asked Camille who else was involved in this sickening farce.
He reminded her that she had claimed to be carrying his child, the sole future heir to DeLuca Holdings.
Camille’s eyes welled with real tears now, but they were the tears of a cornered predator, not a remorseful lover.
She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet, sobbing loudly and reaching for the hem of his trousers.
She begged him to listen to her, claiming that she had done it out of pure, desperate love for him.
She wept that she had discovered she could not conceive three months after they became engaged, and she had been terrified of losing him.
She swore that she intended to use a private surrogate and present the baby as their own to protect his family’s honor.
Marcello looked down at her with an expression of profound disgust, stepping away so her grasping fingers touched only empty air.
He told her that she did not love him; she loved the DeLuca surname, the stock portfolio, and the boardroom power.
Lily tucked herself behind Elena’s knees, watching the weeping woman in the bright fuchsia dress with solemn curiosity.
Marcello turned his back on his kneeling fiancée and addressed the head of his private security team.
He ordered Frank Vance to lock down every exit of the Grand Regency immediately.
He demanded the immediate retrieval of the blue duffel bag Lily had seen, along with the person who took it.
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Frank nodded once and tapped his earpiece, barking urgent orders to the security command center downstairs.
Before Frank could finish his sentence, the hallway lights flickered twice and plunged the entire third floor into pitch darkness.
