Chapter 7

"You're negotiating with me?"

Stanley looked down at Victor like a man surveying something already dead, his contempt so casual it was almost bored. "Seems like you've truly lost your mind, Mr. Gonzalez. Fine. First thing tomorrow morning, Martinez Group will pull every cent of funding from all Gonzalez family ventures."

He paused, his thin lips delivering the sentence like a judge passing verdict. "And that's not all. I guarantee that Gonzalez Corp will be bankrupt and liquidated within the week."

The words hit Victor like a bolt of lightning straight to the skull.

"No! Don't pull the funding!" Victor's composure shattered completely, his psychological defenses crumbling to dust.

He didn't doubt for a second that Stanley would follow through. Losing the entire family business over a sketchbook—he wasn't that stupid.

"I'll get it! I'll get it right now!" Victor scrambled toward the second-floor study, practically tripping over himself on the stairs.

Less than three minutes later, he came stumbling back down, breathless, clutching a thick, yellowed sketchbook in both hands. He presented it to Camila with the reverence of a man offering tribute.

Camila reached out and took it. Her fingertips traced the familiar handwriting on the cover—her mother's elegant script—and a wave of raw, aching grief rose in her chest.

She had what she came for. Whatever thread still connected her to this house, to these people—it was time to sever it for good.

She pressed the manuscript tight against her chest and stepped back, putting half a stride of distance between herself and Stanley's embrace. Lifting her cool gray eyes, she looked past his shoulder to where Laura lingered in the doorway, her expression shifting through emotions like a kaleidoscope.

Camila's lips curved—not quite a smile, something sharper. She turned that look on Stanley, her voice threaded with undisguised mockery. "Stanley, I'm curious. Didn't you say the company had an urgent meeting tonight? Wrapped up awfully fast, didn't it? And somehow you ended up arriving with Laura?"

Stanley's body went rigid—barely perceptible, but there.

He looked into Camila's clear, knowing eyes and felt something uncomfortably close to panic stir in the pit of his stomach.

Laura, watching from the side, assumed Stanley would shield her—for the baby's sake, if nothing else.

She gathered her courage and stepped forward, her voice dripping with honeyed sweetness. "Stanley..."

As she spoke, she reached out, fingers stretching toward his arm, ready to stake her claim on his body right there in front of Camila—a silent declaration of everything that existed between them in the dark.

Her hand never made contact.

Stanley recoiled like she was something contaminated, his body angling sharply away.

"Don't touch me." His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for her ears, cold as a blade's edge. "And don't say a word."

The look he gave her was pure warning.

Laura's hand froze in midair. The color drained from her face as she stared at the man who, just last night, had been tender and warm in her bed.

Stanley didn't spare her another glance. When he turned back to Camila, the transformation was seamless—that devoted, adoring husband sliding back into place like a mask he'd worn a thousand times.

"Camila, don't misunderstand." His voice softened, and even his lies came wrapped in silk. "The meeting ended early. I heard you'd come to the Gonzalez estate, so I rushed over to find you. As for her—I ran into her at the gate, purely by coincidence. I haven't said a single word to her."

Purely by coincidence. A silent, bitter laugh echoed through Camila's mind.

More like he'd finished his cozy evening with his mistress, personally drove her home, and coincidentally discovered his wife was here too.

His ability to lie without so much as a twitch was genuinely impressive. Almost an art form.

Camila didn't call him out. She simply watched him perform, the temperature behind her eyes dropping degree by degree until it reached absolute zero.

But Laura—publicly discarded, publicly denied—couldn't swallow it.

Watching Stanley grovel at Camila's feet, watching him treat his wife with that careful, desperate tenderness—jealousy coiled through Laura's chest like a living thing, venomous and writhing.

Why?

She was the one carrying Stanley's child.

The jealousy drove her half-mad. She was pregnant—Stanley would never truly hurt her, and Camila wouldn't dare touch her. She was untouchable.

Laura crossed the marble floor on her stilettos, stopping inches from Camila. Her voice dropped to a whisper—low enough that only they could hear, laced with pure venom. "Who are you fooling with this ice-queen act? You think Stanley actually loves you? You have no idea what—"

The crack of a slap split the air like a gunshot.

Camila didn't waste a single word. Didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. Her hand came up and connected with Laura's carefully made-up face with every ounce of force she possessed.

The slap was fast, brutal, and absolute—every drop of disgust and revulsion Camila had been swallowing for weeks channeled into that one explosive motion.

Laura's head snapped to the side. A strangled cry tore from her throat.

Her stiletto skidded on the polished tile and her balance vanished—her body lurching backward, arms pinwheeling.

"My baby!" Laura shrieked, raw terror flooding her voice as both hands flew instinctively to cradle her stomach.

And in that split second—that razor-thin sliver of time—Stanley's mask disintegrated.

The man who'd been standing at Camila's side, eyes only for her, moved on pure instinct. His face transformed. He lunged forward, catching Laura before she hit the ground, his arms wrapping protectively around her waist, pulling her securely against him.

"Careful!" The word burst from him before he could stop it, edged with a panic he hadn't even registered feeling.

The raw terror in his eyes—the desperate, primal need to protect—was impossible to hide. Impossible to explain away.

The living room plunged into absolute silence.

Victor and Mandy stared, slack-jawed and frozen. Laura sagged against Stanley's chest, still trembling.

And Camila stood exactly where she was.

She watched them with detached precision—this man and woman tangled together, his hand pressed protectively over Laura's belly, his face stripped bare of every careful lie he'd ever told.

Camila slowly uncurled her stinging palm. Her gaze settled on the rigid line of Stanley's back.

She lifted her chin, and when she spoke, her voice was low and husky in the quiet room—cool as winter glass, edged with a knowing so sharp it could draw blood.

"Stanley. Why are you so worried?"

Stanley snapped back to himself. He released Laura as if burned, spinning around to face Camila. His face was ashen.

Camila's lips curved upward—a smile with nothing behind it. No warmth. No mercy. Her eyes held his as she spoke, each word falling with deliberate, surgical weight.

"Could it be... that the baby Laura's carrying is yours?"