Letters We Never Sent

He stayed in his study until he heard the household wake. The distinct sound of Camille’s high heels clicking across the parquet hallway signaled that breakfast was being served. He smoothed his collar, put on his customary calm expression, and walked downstairs.

Camille was sitting at the sunlit terrace table, holding a fresh glass of orange juice. She looked radiant in a pastel cashmere sweater, flipping casually through a bridal magazine.

When she saw him, her face lit up with an expression so convincingly ecstatic it chilled him to his core.

“Nate!” She stood and threw her arms around his neck, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek. “You’re back! Why didn't you wake me?”

“Arrived late,” he said smoothly, returning the light embrace. “Didn't want to disturb you.”

“You work too hard, darling.” She poured him a cup of coffee—black, no sugar, exactly how he liked it. “Chicago was miserable, I assume?”

“Productive,” Nathaniel replied, watching her hands. They were delicate, manicured, steady. Not a tremor of unease. “How were things here while I was away?”

“Oh, chaotic! The florist tried to double the peony budget, and the lighting crew was totally incompetent,” she laughed breezily, taking a bite of toast. “And... well, you know how hard it is to get good staff these days. Clara has just been impossible.”

Nathaniel held her gaze over the rim of his cup. “Impossible how?”

“Careless. Clumsy. I caught her using my private hand lotion in the guest bath yesterday,” Camille said, shaking her head with mild disdain. “I didn't want to make a scene, but honestly, Nate, she’s out of her depth in a house like this. She’s better suited for a diner or a laundromat.”

Just then, the pantry door swung open. Clara walked in carrying a silver tray with warm croissants. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and she looked visibly exhausted, but her posture was straight.

When Clara noticed Nathaniel sitting at the table, her steps faltered for a fraction of a second.

“Good morning, Mr. Vaughn,” she said softly, keeping her eyes downcast as she placed the basket between them. “Welcome home.”

“Good morning, Clara,” Nathaniel said, watching her carefully. “You look tired.”

Before Clara could answer, Camille cut in, her tone sweet as honey. “I told her she could take a ten-minute break after she cleans the conservatory, darling. Clara’s just working hard so she doesn't make any more silly mistakes today. Right, Clara?”

Clara’s jaw tightened. She looked at Nathaniel, caught the quiet intensity in his eyes, and gave a stiff nod. “Yes, Miss Royce. Excuse me.”

She turned and retreated into the kitchen.

Nathaniel’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was an encrypted ping from Julian:

Check your inbox. Royce Capital is dry. She owes $4.2 million to a hedge fund in Jersey City due November 15. The wedding is her bailout.

Nathaniel closed his phone and slid it back into his jacket. He looked across the table at his fiancée, who was happily debating the merits of silk vs. linen table runners.

“Camille,” Nathaniel said quietly.