It was a rainy Tuesday when Camilla delivered her baby. A lovely little girl whose cries pierced the stillness of their little home. Camilla underestimated the reach of the Leviste family. She soon realized that even in her little province, their power was unparalleled. She was not allowed basic health care, and as such, she could not go to the hospital and was forced to deliver at home through a midwife.
Even without antenatal care, she delivered a healthy baby. She kissed the damp curls on her daughter's head and smiled as happy tears flowed from her eyes. Holding her daughter for the first time with a heart filled with love and uncertainty, there was a storm brewing both inside and out. She named the little one Andrea after her grandma.
There were no lullabies in those early years, only the hum of exhaustion and survival. Camilla's childhood friend, Austria, introduced her to a business that Lorena had no interest in sabotaging. Filth should work in filthy places.
They both worked nights in town— at first, waitressing, then dancing in the local bar, and finally performing under bright lights in places where men tossed money around as confetti, and women smiled through clenched teeth.
None of the women enjoyed being there, but their circumstances forced them into that life. Camilla, unable to find any other job, was forced to perform at a strip club to take care of her daughter and mother. Austria called this life survival, but Camilla called it penance.
Austria rushed into the dressing room with excitement. "You won't believe who's back in town." She squealed excitedly.
Camilla stared at her with her usual dead eyes. Her gaze had long stopped being bright and childlike, and she had long since stopped smiling. "Who?" She deadpanned.
Austria stared and frowned briefly in displeasure before becoming excited again. "It's the big shots from the U.S.," she squealed. Something flickered in Camilla's expression, and she hummed in response.
Those big shots gave the largest tips and always liked the company of women privately. There was one man who had taken an interest in Camilla, and if he were here today, she would be relieved from performing for a large crowd. It was something she looked forward to as a small smile tugged the corners of her lips, a night where she would do nothing but sit and talk and have a huge pay.
Camilla met Alex Wilkes in the club she worked at—Solace, which was anything but. He was an older man, loud, his Orsborn broken, and his dollars plenty. He liked the way she looked at him like she didn't care who he was. Her expressions were always controlled. He was intrigued by her.
"You want to leave this place?" He asked after his third whiskey. "I can take you away from her, you will be mine, and will never struggle again."
Camilla, worn thin by poverty and heartbreak, said yes. She needed saving, and he was coming to her rescue. He may not have been Prince Charming, but he was her savior nonetheless.
She left Andrea in the province in the care of her mother and Austria's promise to help. She kissed her daughter goodbye while she slept, unaware that it would be the last time she'd see her for years.
~~~
America was bright, fast, and cruel. Initially, Alex spoiled Camilla with penthouses and jewelry, catering and being attentive to her every need. She was his trophy wife, eye candy for display. It was always transactional. There was no love. He owned her, and she came to understand and realize that too late. She escaped one hell only to waltz right back into another.
The bruises were never on her face— he was too careful for that. He had to uphold his pristine image to the public as a loving and doting husband. The bruises bloomed on her ribs, her arms, and parts of her that never quite healed. She was forced to wear long sleeves and turtle necks to hide the bruises. He'd apologize with gifts, expensive jewelry, and designer bags, all custom-made. He'd say she was his "lucky charm," call her his "Orsborn Trophy," then rage when she talked of home. She was not a wife but a possession.
When a typhoon swept through the outskirts of Orsborn, where her province was located, it flattened entire neighborhoods and flooded the valley. Camilla begged Alex to let her return home. She was on her knees, pleading and crying with snot from her nose. She was still hopeful that they survived and that she could find them.
"They're gone. Your mother and child are no more." He snapped, waving his phone with blurry news coverage. "What's the point? You're not flying back to a pile of mud."
She never received a call from her mother. No letter. No word.
Weeks passed, then months. Grief curled in her chest like a serpent. Silent and constantly watching. The beatings were no longer painful. The thought stopped registering in her mind. Every hit that landed on her body could not compare to the pain inside her chest. She stopped crying out in pain. She stopped smiling. She stopped dreaming and hoping. She became hollow. Dangerous.
~~~
One cold evening after beating Camilla, Alex collapsed in their Manhattan apartment, clutching his chest, eyes wild with fear.
"Cam…. Help me," he rasped.
She looked down at him and said nothing with her dead eyes and an expressionless face. The silence stretched. She didn't scream. Didn't call 911.
She watched.
By the time the paramedics arrived— hours later— it was over. Alex Wilkes, the Manhattan business tycoon, died of a heart attack, leaving his beloved young wife a widow.
The will was clear. Everything Alex Wilkes owned went to his wife, Camilla Wilkes. All his stocks and property. Even the art he collected and never appreciated. The lawyers didn't question her grief, she played the role of the devastated young widow with great precision. But inside, something had been reborn. There was a spark of hope.
Camilla Wilkes— no longer the maid's daughter, no longer the desperate abandoned mother or abused wife— was now a woman with wealth, influence, and a name. She was powerful.
Revenge was not just a wish. It was a plan.