Chapter 7 - The Woman Who Finally Told the Truth
Sloane Pembroke had not slept properly since the Bride Selection.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Everett Kane walking toward Camille with his dinner jacket.
Not because she felt particularly guilty.
At first, she hadn't.
Sloane had spent her entire life believing that consequences were something other people experienced.
Her father owned a luxury development company.
Her mother sat on three charity boards.
She had grown up surrounded by women who competed through invitations, jewelry, and perfectly disguised insults.
Humiliating another woman at a society event seemed ugly only when someone important objected.
And Everett Kane had objected.
That was what frightened her.
But three days after the event, Sloane was beginning to fear something worse.
She had been lied to.
Miranda Bell had promised her that Oliver Briarwood would notice her.
That Russell preferred a woman from a more financially stable family.
That Camille Harrow's presence was merely an obligation arising from an old friendship.
And that an embarrassing moment in the gallery would help remind everyone that Camille no longer belonged among Charleston's elite.
Sloane had asked whether the stunt was safe.
Miranda had smiled.
"Nobody is getting hurt. It's a little society theater."
Then she had promised an appearance payment through a promotional agency.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Sloane hadn't needed the money.
She'd wanted the validation.
Someone was paying her because she mattered.
Because she was the kind of woman people wanted cameras to follow.
She hadn't understood how pathetic that need was until the cameras turned against her.
Now her own face was circulating online.
People were slowing down the videos.
Comparing angles.
Questioning why Miranda had directed Camille into the gallery.
A social media account had posted a frame showing Sloane's shoe planted firmly on Camille's gown.
Another showed her hand near the torn seam.
Sloane's mother had called seventeen times.
Her father had demanded to know whether Russell Briarwood had dragged the Pembroke family into a financial scandal.
And Oliver had sent her a message containing only one sentence.
Don't contact me again.
She stood in her bedroom staring at it.
Then the doorbell rang.
Her housekeeper appeared.
"Miss Sloane, there's a woman downstairs."
"Who?"
"She says she's an attorney."
Sloane went cold.
"Did she give a name?"
"Yes. Tessa Quinn."
Sloane's first instinct was to refuse.
Her second was to call Miranda.
Miranda answered immediately.
"Don't speak to her."
Sloane stared at the phone.
"How do you know who's here?"
A silence.
Then Miranda said, "Russell's legal team expected this."
Sloane felt sick.
"Expected what?"
"An attempt to blame you for a harmless incident."
"Harmless?"
"Sloane, be sensible. You stepped on a dress. These things happen."
"You told me to do it."
Miranda's voice sharpened.
"Be very careful what you say."
Sloane sat on the edge of her bed.
"Did Russell know?"
"That's not relevant."
"Did he?"
Miranda's silence answered the question.
Sloane's eyes filled.
"You said Oliver would choose me."
"Oliver's personal preferences were never guaranteed."
"You promised."
"I promised you an opportunity."
Sloane felt the room tilt.
She had destroyed another woman's dress for an opportunity that had never existed.
Miranda continued.
"Listen carefully. You were clumsy. Camille overreacted. That's the story."
"And the fifty thousand dollars?"
"An appearance fee."
"For what?"
"Your promotional participation."
Sloane stared at the wall.
"You used me."
Miranda laughed softly.
"Everyone uses everyone, sweetheart. Some people are simply paid better."
The call ended.
Sloane remained motionless.
Then she went downstairs.
Tessa Quinn was waiting in the sitting room.
She stood when Sloane entered.
"Miss Pembroke."
Sloane folded her arms.
"Are you here to threaten me?"
"No."
"Then what do you want?"
"The truth."
Sloane laughed bitterly.
"That's what everyone says when they want something."
Tessa took a seat.
"You're welcome to have your own lawyer present. In fact, I'd recommend it before discussing anything that could affect your legal position."
Sloane frowned.
"You're telling me to get a lawyer?"
"Yes."
"Even though you represent Camille?"
"Especially because I represent Camille."
Sloane studied her.
For the first time in several days, someone had spoken to her without either flattering or threatening her.
Tessa placed a business card on the table.
"I won't ask you to make statements without understanding the consequences."
Sloane looked at it.
"And if I tell you I didn't do anything?"
"Then your account will need to be evaluated against the available evidence."
"You're very confident."
"No. I'm careful."
Tessa stood.
"There's a difference."
She walked toward the door.
Sloane looked at the card.
"Wait."
Tessa stopped.
Sloane swallowed.
"Did Camille really not know about the arrangement?"
"What arrangement?"
"The marriage agreement."
Tessa turned.
"What do you know about it?"
Sloane stared at her.
"Miranda told me Camille was pretending to be a bride because her father's company was bankrupt. She said the whole night was a negotiation."
Tessa's expression became serious.
"Camille did know her father wanted an engagement. She did not agree to marry Oliver."
Sloane looked down.
"And she didn't agree to be humiliated."
"No."
Sloane's throat tightened.
"Is she going to sue me?"
"I can't make promises about that."
"Is she going to destroy my life?"
Tessa watched her.
"Miss Pembroke, Camille has spent the last several days trying to protect the livelihoods of more than a thousand people. I don't think destroying your life is her primary concern."
Those words hurt more than Sloane expected.
Because they made her own behavior seem so small.
So unnecessary.
She sat slowly.
"I think I need that lawyer."
Tessa nodded.
"Then that's where you should start."
Across town, Camille was having a much worse morning.
An independent building inspector had confirmed that part of Seabrook Grand's east wing needed extensive work before it could safely reopen.
The remaining repairs would be expensive.
More than the property could comfortably afford while its financing was uncertain.
Rosa had closed the affected rooms.
Several guests had been moved to other hotels with their consent.
The front desk staff had worked late into the night arranging transfers.
And, for once, Camille felt proud of the company's decisions.
They had chosen safety over revenue.
But at ten twenty-three, the fire alarm sounded.
Camille was in the ground-floor conference room reviewing operating expenses when the first alarm began.
A sharp electronic tone cut through the air.
Then another.
Rosa appeared in the doorway.
"Everybody out."
Camille stood.
"Is it a drill?"
"No."
The hotel manager was already moving.
"The panel indicates the east service wing."
Camille grabbed her phone.
"Call emergency services."
"Security has already done it."
They moved into the corridor.
Guests were filing toward the exits.
Employees directed them calmly.
Camille recognized Marcus near the service stairwell.
"What's happening?"
"Possible electrical fire in a maintenance storage area."
"Is the wing clear?"
"We're checking against the access log."
A faint smell of smoke reached them.
Camille's heart began pounding.
She remembered the incomplete repairs.
The invoices claiming work had been finished.
The repeated warnings everyone had ignored.
"Is anyone still inside?"
Marcus checked his radio.
"Maintenance was working near the closed section. I'm confirming everyone is accounted for."
Camille looked toward the stairs.
Then caught herself.
She wasn't a firefighter.
Running blindly into a smoke-filled service corridor would only create another person to rescue.
Instead, she took the guest register from a front desk manager.
"Let's get everyone accounted for outside."
She joined the evacuation team.
Within minutes, the hotel lawn was crowded with guests wrapped in blankets.
Some looked frightened.
Others were irritated about interrupted breakfasts.
A little boy cried into his father's shoulder.
Camille walked from group to group, helping the employees compare room lists with the people outside.
Fire trucks arrived.
The firefighters entered the service wing.
Then a radio crackled.
One maintenance employee was missing from the initial assembly count.
Camille felt the blood drain from her face.
"Who?"
Marcus looked at the list.
"Daniel Reed."
Twenty-two.
Recently hired.
A young man who had started work only three months earlier.
Camille remembered meeting him during her last inspection.
He had been excited about completing his electrical certification.
She turned toward the service entrance.
Two firefighters were already checking the area.
Seconds stretched.
Then minutes.
Camille could hear her own heartbeat.
Finally, a firefighter emerged with Daniel beside him.
The young man was coughing but walking.
A paramedic guided him toward an ambulance.
Camille exhaled so violently her knees nearly buckled.
Rosa caught her elbow.
"He's out."
Camille nodded.
"He's out."
The fire had been small.
A damaged electrical component had overheated in an area affected by the unfinished restoration.
The department was still investigating the precise cause.
But the incident was enough to shut the affected section completely.
For Camille, it was another reminder of the cost of treating repairs as paperwork.
A few thousand dollars saved on actual work could become a disaster no financial report could conceal.
By noon, the guests were safe.
Daniel was receiving medical evaluation.
And the hotel was cooperating with fire investigators.
Camille stood beneath the veranda, staring at the emergency vehicles.
Her phone rang.
Everett.
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
"Is anyone hurt?"
"One employee was treated for smoke exposure. We're waiting for an update."
"Do you need anything?"
Camille closed her eyes.
The old Everett would have sent a team.
Perhaps a helicopter.
Perhaps three lawyers and a building engineer before she finished explaining.
Now he waited.
"I need you to tell me something," she said.
"What?"
"Do you think I'm capable of fixing this?"
A silence.
Then Everett answered.
"I think you're capable of leading people through it. I don't think you should have to solve every problem alone."
Camille swallowed.
"That's a careful answer."
"It's the one I believe."
She sat on a bench.
"Sometimes I think everyone is waiting for me to fail."
"Some people probably are."
She laughed weakly.
"You're supposed to say no."
"I'd rather tell you the truth."
Camille looked toward the hotel.
"Then tell me something else."
"All right."
"Why did you never come after me?"
Everett was silent for several seconds.
Eighteen months of unanswered questions seemed to stretch between them.
Finally, he said, "Because you told me I was taking away your freedom."
Camille closed her eyes.
"And?"
"And I realized that if I followed you after you asked me to leave, I'd only prove you were right."
She felt tears gathering.
"I thought you didn't care enough to fight for us."
"I cared too much to keep fighting you."
Camille pressed a hand over her eyes.
Everett continued.
"At first, I was angry. Then embarrassed. I told myself you didn't understand what I was offering."
"And now?"
"Now I understand that I kept offering you things you hadn't asked for."
The Atlantic wind moved through the trees.
Camille whispered, "I loved you."
"I know."
"I wanted us to work."
"So did I."
She inhaled shakily.
"Maybe we were both terrible at saying what we needed."
"Maybe."
A pause.
Then Everett said, "Camille, I still love you."
She stopped breathing.
He continued before she could answer.
"But I'm not telling you because I expect anything. You have enough demands being made of you."
Camille stared toward the ocean.
For a moment, she imagined setting everything aside.
The lawsuit.
The hotels.
The damaged family.
Letting herself fall back into the familiar comfort of being loved by someone who seemed strong enough to stand against the world.
But she knew love was not a substitute for the work ahead.
"Everett."
"Yes?"
"I don't know what I can give you right now."
"Then don't promise anything."
The words felt strangely merciful.
She wiped her cheeks.
"Thank you."
After ending the call, Camille sat alone for several minutes.
Then Rosa appeared.
"Daniel's going to be fine."
Camille stood immediately.
"You're sure?"
"He's being monitored, but the hospital says he is stable and his initial evaluation is reassuring."
Camille covered her mouth.
Relief rushed through her.
Rosa smiled tiredly.
"His mother wants to thank everyone who helped."
"Tell her the firefighters deserve the thanks."
"I will."
They walked back toward the hotel.
Camille was halfway through the lobby when her phone rang again.
Unknown number.
She answered cautiously.
"Camille Harrow?"
"Speaking."
"This is Sloane Pembroke."
Camille stopped.
For a moment, the ballroom returned.
The ripping silk.
The laughter.
The cold air against her back.
"What do you want?"
Sloane's voice shook.
"I need to tell you something."
Camille looked toward the staircase.
"I'm listening."
"I lied."
Silence.
"About the dress," Sloane continued. "It wasn't an accident."
Camille closed her eyes.
"I know."
"Miranda Bell told me where to stand. She told me when you'd enter the gallery. She wanted me to embarrass you in front of the guests."
"Why?"
"She said it would make you cooperate."
Camille felt her stomach turn.
"Cooperate with what?"
"With the arrangement your father and Russell were making."
A long silence followed.
Then Sloane whispered, "Camille, there's something else."
"What?"
"I have messages from Miranda. And my attorney says there may be a way to give them to your lawyer properly."
Camille gripped the phone.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Sloane began crying.
"Because I thought I was important to those people."
She took a shaky breath.
"And then I realized they were using me to hurt someone who had never done anything to me."
Camille said nothing.
Sloane continued.
"I don't expect you to forgive me. But I want to tell the truth."
Camille looked toward the ocean beyond the lobby windows.
For several seconds, she considered hanging up.
Sloane had enjoyed humiliating her.
The laughter had been real.
The cruelty had been deliberate.
But now Camille was being offered something more valuable than an apology.
Evidence.
"Have your lawyer contact Tessa Quinn," she said.
"I will."
"And Sloane?"
"Yes?"
Camille's voice became firm.
"Telling the truth doesn't erase what you did."
"I know."
"But it's better than lying."
Sloane began crying harder.
"Thank you."
Camille ended the call.
She stood motionless.
Then she dialed Tessa.
Her friend answered immediately.
"Tell me something good."
Camille looked down at her phone.
"Sloane wants to cooperate."
A pause.
Then Tessa said, "That's extremely useful."
"She has messages from Miranda."
"Even better. If they're authentic, they could establish that the confrontation was planned."
Camille took a breath.
"And Tessa?"
"Yes?"
"I think we're finally getting close."
Tessa was silent.
Then she said something Camille would remember for the rest of her life.
"Be careful. People who build their power on secrets become most dangerous when those secrets are about to come out."
That evening, as the sun sank behind the hotel, Camille received an encrypted email from Lena Ortiz.
It contained an attachment she'd recovered from an old company archive.
A payment reconciliation.
A corporate ownership diagram.
And a scanned memorandum prepared for Russell Briarwood.
Camille opened the memorandum.
Its subject line made her blood run cold.
HARROW CONTROL TRANSACTION — TARGET EXECUTION PLAN.
She scrolled slowly.
The document described Harrow Coast's financial vulnerability.
The disputed share guarantee.
The proposed engagement.
The anticipated lender acceleration.
And a final instruction.
Secure Camille Harrow's voluntary execution of the voting proxy before any independent review of related-party disbursements is initiated.
Camille stared at the screen.
Then she read the final paragraph.
If the Harrow party declines the matrimonial alignment, proceed with the alternative asset acquisition strategy.
Attached was a preliminary list of properties.
All eleven Harrow Coast hotels.
Each had an estimated acquisition value.
Each had a proposed post-acquisition management structure.
And beside the heading was a handwritten notation.
Target discount: 40%.
Camille slowly lowered her phone.
Russell Briarwood had never intended to save her family's company.
May you like
He intended to own it.
One way or another.
