SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan) novel Chapter 181

Chapter 181

The penthouse was quiet when Camille arrived home. Only the kitchen light glowed, spilling onto the polished floor. She found Alexander at the island counter, papers spread before him, a glass of whiskey at his elbow. The amber liquid caught the light as he raised it, not looking up when she entered.

"Long day?" he asked, still scanning the document in front of him.

Camille set her bag down, her heart beating faster. The weight of Eleanor Pierce's visit pressed on her shoulders. "You could say that."

She moved to the refrigerator, buying time as she pulled out a bottle of water. Her mind raced, searching for the right words. How do you tell someone their estranged mother showed up after seven years of silence?

"Someone came to see me today," she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Alexander made a noncommittal sound, still absorbed in his work.

"At the office." Camille twisted the cap off her water. "Your mother."

The stillness that followed was absolute. Alexander's hand froze mid-turn of a page. His shoulders stiffened under his dress shirt. When he finally looked up, his eyes had turned to ice.

"My mother," he repeated, his voice flat. "Eleanor Pierce came to your office."

"Yes. This afternoon."

Alexander set his glass down with careful precision. "And what did my mother want after seven years of silence?"

The coldness in his voice sent a chill through Camille. This was a side of Alexander she rarely saw, the hard edge beneath his usual warmth.

"She wants to see you. To talk." Camille moved closer, resting her hands on the counter. "She says she and your father need to apologize."

Alexander laughed, a sharp sound with no humor in it. "Apologize. That's rich." He stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the floor. "Did she tell you why they might need to apologize? Did she share that particular story?"

"Some of it," Camille said carefully. "About the accident. About James."

"About how they chose to believe my brother instead of me?" Alexander's voice rose slightly. "About how they visited him daily while I was learning to walk again? About how they helped him avoid charges while I went through three surgeries alone?"

He turned away, moving to the window. Outside, the city sparkled in the darkness, a thousand lights against the night sky.

"Alexander..."

"No." His voice cut through the room. "Whatever else she told you, whatever she asked, the answer is no. I'm not interested."

Camille took a slow breath. "She mentioned James's death. Your father's stroke."

Alexander's reflection in the window showed no reaction, but his knuckles whitened where he gripped the sill.

"She said they tried to reach you. That they came to your apartment after James's funeral."

"They did," Alexander said coldly. "With his confession letter in hand. Four years too late."

"You knew about the letter?" Camille asked, surprised.

"Of course I knew," Alexander said, turning to face her. "They sent it by courier after I refused to see them. I sent it back unopened."

Camille moved toward him, stopping when he took a step back. "She brought a photo. Of you as a child. Winning a sailing competition."

Something flickered across his face, pain, quickly masked by anger. "She kept my baby pictures. How touching."

"Alexander, please..."

"Please what, Camille?" His voice was dangerously calm now. "Please meet with the people who abandoned me when I needed them most? Please give them absolution so they can sleep better at night? I already refused when my father had his stroke last month. What makes you think I've changed my mind?"

"You knew about your father's stroke?" Camille asked.

"Their lawyer contacted me. Said my father had collapsed after seeing our engagement announcement. That he was asking for me." Alexander's expression hardened. "I told him my father made his choice seven years ago. I was simply honoring it."

"No." Camille held his gaze steadily. "Please listen. Just listen to what I have to say."

For a moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he gave a curt nod, moving back to the counter and his abandoned whiskey.

"Your mother came alone. She didn't know if I'd see her. She didn't demand anything." Camille chose her words with care. "She said they failed you. Those were her words, that they failed you when you needed them most."

Alexander stared into his glass, saying nothing.

"She said forgiveness would be too much to ask. She just wants a chance to apologize in person. To acknowledge the truth."

"Why now?" The question came quietly, some of the ice melting from his voice. "Why keep trying after all these years? After I've made it abundantly clear I want nothing to do with them?"

"She said they were afraid. Ashamed." Camille took a step closer, relieved when he didn't pull away. "Your father struggled to accept what they'd done, that they'd chosen to believe lies."

Alexander drained his glass, setting it down with a sharp click. "My father, struggling with his precious pride. That sounds about right."

"But they're here now," Camille said. "Still trying to make amends."

"No." Alexander shook his head. "They're here now because they're getting older. Because James is gone and they're facing their own mortality. They want absolution before it's too late."

"Maybe," Camille conceded. "Does that make their regret less real?"

Alexander pushed away from the counter, pacing the length of the kitchen. His movements reminded Camille of a caged animal, powerful and restless.

"You don't understand what it was like," he said finally. "James was always their golden child. The star athlete, the popular one, the son who could do no wrong. When the accident happened..." His voice caught. "I kept telling them he'd been drinking. That he'd insisted on driving even though I offered to call a cab. That he'd laughed when I asked him to slow down."

Camille stayed silent, letting him speak.

"No, it isn't." Alexander turned to face her, his expression softened but serious. "You're asking me to reopen wounds that took years to heal. To face people who chose someone else over me when I needed them most. People I've already turned away multiple times."

He crossed the room to her, taking her hands in his. "But you're right about one thing. I don't face things alone anymore."

"I'll be with you," Camille promised. "Whatever you decide."

Alexander nodded, pressing his forehead against hers. "Set it up, then. Someplace neutral. Someplace I can leave easily if I need to."

"Thank you," Camille whispered.

"Don't thank me yet," Alexander said, pulling back to look at her. "This could go very badly."

"Or it could be the start of healing something you thought was broken forever." Camille touched his face gently. "Either way, you'll know you tried."

Later, as they lay in bed, Alexander spoke into the darkness. "I saw James, you know. Before he died."

Camille turned to face him, though she could barely make out his features in the dark room. "You never told me that."

"He came to my office. Looked terrible, drinking too much, his life falling apart." Alexander's voice was distant with memory. "Said he had to tell me something important. That he couldn't live with the lie anymore."

"What did you do?"

"I told him it was too late. That nothing he could say would change what happened." Alexander's fingers found hers beneath the covers. "Two weeks later, I heard he was dead. Drunk driving, they said."

The pain in his voice wrapped around Camille's heart. "You couldn't have known."

"No," he agreed. "But I've wondered since then... if I'd listened, if I'd let him confess, would he still be alive? Or did the guilt kill him as surely as the drunk driving?"

Camille had no answer for that. She simply held him closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her palm.

"When they came after the funeral, I couldn't bear to see them," Alexander continued quietly. "Couldn't bear to watch them grieve for James when they'd abandoned me. And when my father had his stroke last year..." He trailed off. "I told myself they'd made their bed. That they didn't deserve my sympathy."

"And now?" Camille asked gently.

"Now I don't know." His voice was barely audible. "Part of me still wants to refuse. To make them feel a fraction of what I felt. But another part..."

"Is tired of carrying the weight," Camille finished for him when he didn't continue.

"Yes," he admitted. "Tired of wondering what they might say. If they truly regret what they did, or if they're just lonely now that James is gone."

"I'll meet them," Alexander said after a long silence. "But I'm doing it for me, not for them. I need to know if there's anything worth saving. Or if it's truly too late."

As his breathing deepened into sleep, Camille remained awake, thinking of Eleanor Pierce and her sad eyes. Of second chances and roads not taken. Of the healing power of truth, even when it comes years too late.

She had persuaded Alexander to meet his parents. Now she could only hope she hadn't made a terrible mistake.