Erotica Camille

T H R E E |Il n'y pas de fumée sans feu|

Erotica Camille|3|

M A X I N E

"Il n'y a pas de fumée sans feu"- There isn't smoke without fire or where there's smoke there's fire."

Maxine sat on the edge of her bed, the morning light seeping through the curtains, casting soft shadows in the room. She had been awake for an hour, yet her mind was still spinning with indecision. The Camille story—it
lingered in her thoughts like an unwanted guest. She ran a hand through her tousled hair, staring at the notes scattered across her nightstand.

Her apartment was a reflection of her life: neat, organized, with a hint of chaos tucked away in the corners. The smell of fresh coffee drifted in from the kitchen, a small comfort in the midst of her inner turmoil. She could hear the distant hum of the city waking up outside, the sounds of cars, pedestrians, and the occasional siren filtering through the window.

Maxine had always been a woman of principles, a journalist who prided herself on chasing stories that mattered. Environmental scandals, corporate corruption, human rights abuses—those were the stories she lived for. The idea of writing about Camille, an anonymous author of Exotica novels, felt like a betrayal of everything she stood for.

Yet, Ezra's offer still weighed on her mind. The promotion... it was the chance she had been working toward for years, a position that would give her more control, more influence. But at what cost? She frowned, picking up one of the notes and staring at the name scrawled across it—Camille.

Who even is Camille? she thought, her brow furrowing. Maxine didn't know much about the elusive author, only that she had judged anyone who indulged in Exotica novels. It felt like a waste of time, energy, and talent to dive into a story she had no interest in. But then again, this was more than just a story—it was a ticket to something bigger.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, seeing a message from Monica: “Have you decided yet? You should totally go for it!”

Monica, like several of her friends, had been pushing her to take the story. They all saw it as an opportunity, a chance to prove herself in a different arena. Maxine sighed, setting the phone back down. Her friends meant well, but they didn’t understand the internal battle she was fighting.

"This isn't me," Maxine muttered to herself. The thought of diving into a world of romanticized fiction, of digging through someone's private fantasies, made her stomach churn. She wasn’t even sure she could do the story justice—what did she know about Exotica or its readers?

But as much as she tried to push the idea away, she couldn’t deny the nagging curiosity that had begun to take root. Who was Camille, really? Why had this person chosen to hide behind a pseudonym? And why did so many people care about unmasking them?

Maxine rubbed her temples, trying to clear her mind. She stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the city below. Chicago was bustling with life, people going about their day, chasing their own dreams and desires. Was she really going to let this opportunity slip by because of her own biases?

She could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on her. If she said no, she might never get another chance like this. But if she said yes, she risked losing a part of herself in the process.

Maxine closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The clock was ticking. She had to decide soon, and whatever choice she made, there would be no turning back.

The crisp morning air of Chicago wrapped around her, but the layers she wore—a white coat over an apricot blouse paired with a white skirt and nude pumps—kept her warm and stylish. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the pavement as she walked with purpose towards the Boomerang Post.