Page 122 of Ella Gets the D
Camila shifts in heels and twists manicured fingers in front of her black knee-length dress. My arched brow doesn’t move no matter how many times she peeks to see if I’m still pissed.
Spoiler alert: fuck yes, I am.
Hearing the despair in Ella’s voice was all it took. She’s regaining her strength for a battle. But I want a war.
Camila’s fixation on the imported rug I asked Morgan six times not to order is all the confirmation I need. “Leave.” Neither time nor patience are on my calendar today. It’s threat enough for her to be in my office. Bloggers might manufacture yet another story.
“I can explain.” Her words spill out in a jumble. She wants me to hear her out, a privilege she’ll never have again. She scurries to the side of my desk to audition for my forgiveness, the stack of paperwork in front of me be damned. “I agreed to stay quiet about the photos—”
“Let me guess. You thought media attention would pull us back together, the same way you thought a married man would leave his wife if you spread your legs enough?”
Her chin trembles, the promise of new tears clinging to hazel eyes. “I never meant to hurt you, Julian. Charles was a mistake. I love you.”
Love.
The word serves enough disgust that I turn back to an open email.
“Please don’t ignore me. We can be together,” she says with an awakened sense of self-assurance, one that leans on ignorance instead of reality. The truth is, nothing stopped us from reconciling before.
“Do you have an ounce of regret for your part in this whole thing?” I shake my head, loosening memories of her selfishness, which I overlooked for a partner in crime on the social scene and good sex.
Camila steels her voice. “Of course I do. I felt awful the first time.”
“But not awful enough to stop having sex with a man whose wife caught you in their bed?”
Camila is no better than the Montgomery name she denounces behind closed doors. Practiced smiles and performative empathy were talents inherited from a family who prioritized their needs at the expense of others. Glimpses of her indoctrination made cameos, but this is different. She really doesn’t give a shit.
“He said they were separated!” She spins with a glare likeIrepulsedher. Last I checked, I’m not the one begging. “I got caught up, and now you are too. It’s not odd to you that she moved herself into your house, the ex-fiancé of the woman who slept with her husband?” Wavy blonde hair fans in a head tilt at the question. She scoffs. “Wake up, Julian. She’s not like us. She’s using you to get back at me. I’m willing to give you space to get whatever is going on out of your system, but you need to come back to your senses.”
Camila and I had an open relationship for the last half of our relationship. Work replaced intimacy, so we sought it elsewhere at times and with shared consent. What I feel for Ella isn’ttemporary or a placeholder. If anything, it’s a reminder that my time with Camila was out of convenience and lacked depth.
I stand, straighten the tie behind my camel vest, and do what I should’ve done twenty minutes ago: walk her to the door.
If I have to school her about not playing in my face about my lady, consider class in session. “Get out.” I point to the empty hallway she’s about to fill with her departure and stare at her ashen face to expedite the trip.
“You can’t be serious!Her?She’s old, and she has kids!”
“There is no end to how low you’ll go, is there? Ella is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I won’t tolerate disrespect. You stand here and judge her when the catalyst for her leaving her ex was catching you two fucking.”A man twenty-one years your senior, but go off about her age.
“It was a mistake! We worked on a project together, and long nights turned into dinner and drinks. Don’t throw away what we have for…her. It’s not worth the media backlash; you know you can’t recover from rumors that you’re sleeping with a married woman with a family.”
Camila doesn’t corner the market on casual sex?—my Mt. Rushmore of regret came in first place years ago—but to not hear “I’m sorry” or “Damn, that was kinda fucked up” is as wild as her desire to reconcile while she attempts to bury me in the blogs.
“Piece of free legal advice? Lose my number and lawyer up.”
“You have two minutes to leave our building before security tosses you outside.” Morgan keeps her eyes trained on Camila as she steps through the door. “And, just so you know, a forty-year-old woman knows what she wants and won’t settle for less. Ella never went after Julian; he pursuedher. While you’re conspiring with her ex—who still wants her—she’s living happily and free. The only thingoldaround here is your desperation. Lay it to rest and move on.”
Morgan isn’t confrontational unless it comes to El and the proximity of my penis to her. Right now, she’d catch a case in my honor.
Camila sidesteps her scowl and damn near runs into the doorframe rushing out, possibly to the nearest airport, for another disappearing act.
“I’m scared of you, Mac. Ouch!” I dodge another swat to the chest.
Morgan squares her shoulders and grins. Her hands fall on her hips belted in gold above black slacks. “No one messes with my brother except me. Camila needs to stay away—for good this time.”
“Tell that to our mother.”
“Give her time, JuJu,” Morgan says with a sad smile. “She only wants what’s best.”
