Chapter 7
Camila reached for the earring, but Lorenzo caught her wrist before her fingers touched it.
He didn't squeeze. He didn't need to.
“Don't,” he said.
Her eyes moved to his hand. “Take it off me.”
“Not until we know what it is.”
“It’s mine.”
“You said you lost one diamond.”
“I did.”
“This setting doesn't match the one you're wearing.”
The guests looked up. One of the women nearest the fireplace whispered something to the man beside her. Camila heard it. Color rose along her cheekbones.
She pulled her wrist free. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“You embarrassed yourself when you sent her outside.”
Camila’s attention snapped toward me. “Did she tell you I sent her?”
“I saw her leave.”
“You saw a maid carrying out an instruction. Don't turn it into a tragedy.”
The word stayed between us.
I thought of the blizzard swallowing the terrace, the snow striking my face, the black wire caught around the diamond like a warning. My hands had trembled around the bottle because I had been cold and afraid. No one at this table had looked up when I left.
“It wasn't a tragedy to you,” I said.
Camila stared at me.
My voice sounded smaller than I wanted, but it didn't break. “You didn't ask whether I was hurt.”
A few guests shifted in their chairs.
Lorenzo looked at me with something close to surprise. Not because I had contradicted her, but because I had done it where everyone could hear.
Camila picked up the diamond with two fingers. “This is not mine.”
“You said it was,” I replied.
“I said it looked like mine.”
“That isn't what you said.”
Her hand tightened around the stone.
The dining room doors opened behind us. Stefano entered, carrying a stack of folded linens. He stopped when he saw the table.
Camila turned toward him. “Go check the west terrace.”
Lorenzo’s voice cut across hers. “No.”
Stefano looked between them.
“Bring the estate log,” Lorenzo said. “And don't let anyone touch the door.”
Camila rose so abruptly her chair struck the floor. “You don't give orders in my house.”
Lorenzo remained standing. “Then tell me why S. Vale signed off on a latch that was forced afterward.”
Her face went still.
That was the answer.
Not proof, but an answer.
I looked toward the service entrance. The man’s warning returned in his low voice. You should've left when you had the chance.
Camila set the earring on the table. “Vale is maintenance staff. He makes mistakes.”
“Fresh scratches aren't a mistake.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“No.”
“Then stop performing for these people.”
The guests lowered their eyes. They wanted the evening restored. They wanted the music, the wine, the polished version of the house.
I understood then what protected Camila. It wasn't only money or the estate. It was the room itself. Everyone inside had something to lose by admitting they had seen her clearly.
Stefano returned with the log. He placed it beside the earring.
Lorenzo opened to the page bearing Vale’s signature. A dark smear marked the lower corner, as if someone had dragged a wet glove across the paper.
I recognized the smell before I understood it: cigarette smoke.
The same smell from the service hall.
Lorenzo noticed my face. “What is it?”
“The mark.”
He bent over the log.
Camila moved first. She swept the paper from the table and tore it in half.
The sound was quiet, almost neat.
Nobody breathed.
Lorenzo’s eyes lifted to hers. “Now you are performing.”
Camila crumpled the pieces in her hand. “Everyone leaves.”
“No one leaves,” Lorenzo said.
The words echoed the order she had given earlier, but they sounded different from him. Not cruel. Controlled.
He turned to me. “Where is the note?”
I felt every face in the room settle on me.
For one second, fear told me to lie.
Then I reached beneath my sleeve and placed the folded paper beside the torn log.
Camila’s expression changed when she saw it.
May you like
The note had been meant for me. But now the whole room knew it existed.
And somewhere beyond the locked west terrace, the person who wrote it was still waiting for my next move.
