CHAPTER 8

I watch as she slams the door of her black BMW and rushes to the back door of the house, clutching her heels and a red handbag. Her hair is tied in a messy bun, contrary to the neatly laid ponytail she had when she walked out of the front door of this house this morning. Her cheeks are blushed and the red matted lipstick she had on this morning is ruined. I zoom in to her eyes—smudged mascara, red fiery eyes.

She tiptoes into the house before sighing as she opens the fridge for a bottle of water. She drinks the entire bottle as her chest heaves. She takes a box from her bag and pours beef stew into a pot and fried rice into another cooking pot. Camilla pours bleach on the kitchen sink and hastily gets the dishwasher before she changes into grey lounge clothes and walks up the stairs.

A text pings on my phone.

Hey babe. I just made dinner.

Rolling my eyes, I slam my laptop and walk to my office window, looking down at the bustling city beneath me.

Are you coming back home today? I kno