eminence, MONET DE HAAN

FORTY TWO.

Camille didn't knock.

She never needed to.

She walked straight into Monet's room at the manor and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her coat, hair a mess, jaw clenched like she'd been chewing rage for hours and finally ran out of bite.

"I heard about the party," Camille said, voice calm but cool. She closed the door behind her with a soft click. "Audrey sent me a voice note. Said she wasn't sure you would."

Monet didn't look up.

Camille crossed the room, heels muted against the carpet, and sat in the chair across from her daughter. "You want to tell me why I'm hearing from Adelaide's best friend before I'm hearing from you?"

Monet swallowed. Hard.

"She kissed me, Mom."

Camille raised an eyebrow. "Addy?"

Monet let out a weak, bitter laugh. "Lauren."

"Ah."

"She kissed me. I didn't want it. I didn't ask for it. I didn't kiss back. But..." Her voice cracked, and she finally looked up, eyes red and exhausted, "I didn't stop it fast enough."

Camille leaned back slowly, expression unreadable. "And Adelaide saw?"

Monet nodded. "She ran. And I—I tried to follow. I tried to explain. But she just... shut the door."

Camille was quiet for a long beat. Then: "Good."

Monet blinked, stung. "What?"

"She should have," Camille said plainly. "Because she trusted you with her whole heart. With herself. And whether or not you cheated in the physical sense, emotionally? You already started drifting. You let someone else inch too close to a line Adelaide never agreed to blur."

Monet's jaw tightened. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," Camille said gently. "But that's not the point."

She reached forward, took Monet's trembling hand in her own. "You're used to being wanted. Chased. Worshipped. You've built walls so high that when someone climbs them and actually stays, you don't know what to do with the safety. So you test it."

Monet looked down at their hands. "She gave me everything."

"Yes," Camille said softly. "And you let someone else make her feel replaceable."

Silence.

Then a shuddered inhale from Monet. "I love her."

"I know you do."

"I want to marry her."

Camille's grip tightened. "Then you better start learning how to love her in a way that makes her feel chosen, not just claimed."

Monet's eyes welled. "I messed up."

Camille stood and kissed the top of her head. "Then get up. Fix it. And don't do it with gifts or rings or PR statements. Do it by making her feel safe again."

She started toward the door, pausing only once to glance back.

"Because when Addy loves, she loves quietly. Steadily. But when she breaks? She breaks in silence too. If she stops answering, you'll know it's over—not because she stopped loving you, but because she stopped believing you could love her the way she needed."

The door shut behind her.

And Monet, finally, cried.

But this time, it wasn't for the mistake.