A Plea for Affection

The chilling echo of Roman’s voice lingered long after the sun had risen, playing on a relentless loop in Camilla’s mind. *I will not stop to ask if you have changed your mind.* The dark, sexually charged promise from the garden still made her pulse race and her chest tighten. She knew the man she had married was dangerous. She knew the perfect, stoic facade he presented to the world—and especially to his grandmother—was a complete lie. Beneath the tailored suits and the polite nods, Roman was cold, calculated, and utterly unyielding.

Yet, as she stood before the tall mirror in her bedroom, she found herself praying for one single, desperate mercy. She did not pray for his love. She knew that was an impossible dream, a fantasy reserved for naive fools. Roman’s heart belonged to another woman, and it always would. Instead, Camilla prayed for a child.

She stared at her reflection, tracing the soft line of her jaw. A child. That was the secret motive behind her desperate plea for thirty more days. She wanted a companion. She craved a tiny life that she could love unconditionally, someone who would look up at her with pure, unblemished affection. She wanted to hear the word "Mama" spoken in the quiet corners of a home far away from the Ashford estate. She planned to quietly and permanently disappear from Roman’s life the moment she knew she was carrying his baby, leaving him to the supermodel he truly loved. She would demand no money, no title, and no further contact. But to get that child, she had to seize what might be her only fleeting chance to fulfill his unexpected and aggressive agreement from the previous night.

Camilla turned away from the mirror and walked toward her bed, where a delicate, nude-colored gown lay waiting. She slipped it on carefully, the soft fabric cascading down her body, highlighting a fragile, stunning beauty that she rarely ever revealed to the household. Usually, she hid behind oversized sweaters and plain skirts, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. Not today. On this particular morning, she simply wanted to prepare breakfast for Roman and, perhaps foolishly, steal a tiny, fleeting moment of genuine affection. She adjusted the fringe of her newly trimmed bangs and took a deep, steadying breath.

Her fragile hopes were violently shattered the moment the doorbell rang.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of the chime echoed through the grand foyer, followed quickly by the clicking of designer heels against the marble floor. Camilla paused at the top of the stairs, her heart sinking as a sharp, mocking laugh drifted upward. She recognized that laugh. It was a sound that had haunted her for the past year.

Camilla slowly descended the grand staircase, forcing her expression into a calm, guarded mask. As she reached the main living room, she found Valerie Monroe making herself entirely at home.

Arrogant, striking, and deeply possessive, Roman’s lover sat on the plush sofa with the posture of a queen surveying her domain. Valerie wore a bold maroon jumpsuit that clung to her flawless curves, her long, glossy hair draped perfectly over one shoulder. She looked every inch the international supermodel she was, radiating an effortless power that usually made Camilla feel infinitesimally small.

The moment Valerie’s gaze landed on the staircase, she sneered. Her piercing eyes swept over Camilla’s carefully chosen appearance, taking in the nude-colored gown, the subtle makeup, and the trimmed bangs. The disdain on Valerie’s face was raw and immediate.

"Oh, look at this," Valerie mocked, rising to her feet. She did not bother to hide her hostility; it blazed in her eyes as she stepped aggressively forward. "So the little mouse does know how to play dress-up."

"Is there something you need, Miss Valerie?" Camilla asked, keeping her voice even and polite as she reached the bottom step.

Valerie closed the distance between them, her jaw set in a vicious line. "Don't play coy with me. I wanted to see for myself what my fiancé is doing with a woman who doesn't know her place. I see you’ve really lost your mind, dressing up in this pathetic attempt to seduce Roman. You think a dress is going to make him look at you? You are nothing but a cheap woman."

The insult hung in the air, sharp and ugly. Valerie’s temper flared, and she lunged forward, her manicured hand shooting out to physically grab the delicate fabric of Camilla’s dress.

Before Valerie’s fingers could hook into the silk, Camilla acted with unexpected speed and firmness. Her hand darted out, catching the supermodel’s wrist in a tight, unyielding grip. The sudden physical block caught Valerie off guard. She gasped, trying to yank her arm back, but Camilla held fast, her small fingers digging into the woman’s skin just enough to freeze her in place.

"Let go of me, you bitch!" Valerie snarled, her perfect features twisting in outrage.

"I do not care what you think of me, Miss Valerie," Camilla unapologetically declared, her brown eyes locking fiercely onto the other woman’s face. She did not flinch. She did not back down. "You can call me cheap. You can call me whatever you want. But I will boldly remind you that, as of this very moment, I am still legally and practically Roman Ashford’s wife."

Valerie let out a sharp, condescending laugh, though she stopped struggling against the grip. "His wife?" she loudly mocked, the sound brittle and cruel. "Oh, sweetheart, you are delusional. That title only exists on a meaningless piece of paper. You have no prestige. You have no background. You don't even have a family name worth mentioning. Why Roman ever pitied you enough to sign that paper is a mystery, but don't confuse charity with a real marriage."

Camilla refused to waver in the face of the insult. The sting of being reminded of her orphaned, lowly status burned her chest, but she kept her chin high. She fired back, her tone sharp and clear. "And everyone knows your grand wedding has not yet happened. You are not the lady of this house. Until the day you actually have a ring on your finger and a signed certificate, I will carry out my role as the wife properly."

She released Valerie’s wrist with a firm shove backward. Valerie stumbled a half-step, rubbing her arm, her eyes wide with shock and fury.

This incredibly tense physical and verbal standoff was suddenly interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps.

Camilla turned her head. Roman was descending the grand staircase. He wore a crisp gray dress shirt and tailored trousers, looking imposing and dangerously handsome. But he was not alone. Quickly following him were his mother, Margo, and his two hostile sisters, Vivian and Beatrice.

The moment Valerie saw Roman, her demeanor shifted with terrifying speed. She immediately dropped her aggressive posture, her face crumpling into a picture of wounded innocence. She rushed past Camilla and threw herself toward the stairs.

"Aunt Margo! Roman!" Valerie cried out, playing the victim with practiced ease. "I just came to check on things, and look at her! Camilla is dressed like this, trying to throw herself at Roman. I merely suggested she remember her place, and she attacked me!"

Margo Ashford’s eyes narrowed as she reached the floor, her gaze sweeping over Camilla’s dress with absolute disgust. The older woman and her daughters eagerly joined the fray, stepping into the living room to form a unified front against her.

"Have you no shame, Camilla?" Margo snapped, piling relentless insults onto her daughter-in-law. "Dressing like a woman of the night in my son’s home? We took you out of the gutter, and this is how you repay us? By assaulting our guests?"

Vivian giggled maliciously. "She really thinks she owns the place now. It’s pathetic."

Beatrice took it a step further. She marched right up to Camilla, her face flushed with anger. "You are getting bolder by the second, you little rat," Beatrice hissed. Without warning, Beatrice raised her hands and violently shoved Camilla's shoulder.

The force of the push sent Camilla stumbling backward. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug, and she barely managed to keep her balance, her shoulder throbbing from the impact.

"Wake up!" Beatrice screamed at her. "You do not belong in our world! Stop pretending you are one of us!"

Camilla caught herself, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She braced herself for another physical strike, but before Beatrice could move again, a voice shattered the chaos.

"Enough!"

Roman’s sharp, authoritative shout echoed off the high ceilings, freezing everyone in their tracks. He stepped off the final stair, his presence dominating the room. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene with clear irritation.

Vivian gasped, her hand flying to her chest in shock. "Roman... are you actually defending your worthless wife?"

Valerie immediately pouted, her lower lip trembling as she stepped closer to Roman’s side. "Darling, please don't tell me you are taking her side. I will take your intervention as a defense of Camilla, and I won't stand for it."

Roman did not even look at Camilla. He turned his attention entirely to the supermodel at his side. He quickly and coldly reassured his mistress, his voice dropping to a low, soothing cadence.

"That could never happen, Valerie," he stated flatly.

To emphasize his point, Roman raised his hand and gently stroked Valerie’s flowing hair to comfort her. He tucked a stray strand behind her ear, a gesture so tender and intimate that it felt like a knife twisting in Camilla’s gut. He was utterly ignoring the profound, crushing sadness that visibly clouded Camilla's eyes. He stood there, soothing the woman who had just called her cheap, in front of the sister who had just physically assaulted her, publicly dismissing Camilla’s worth without a second thought.

Visibly exhausted by the morning drama, Roman dropped his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have enough to deal with today. I demand absolute peace in this house. Whatever this is, end it now."

His tone brokered no argument. Margo scoffed loudly, flipping her hand in dismissal. "Fine. If she is going to parade around like that, I will take my breakfast at the club. Come, girls."

Margo turned on her heel and marched toward the front door. Her vicious daughters followed close behind, shooting Camilla one last look of pure hatred. Valerie lingered for a moment, sending a triumphant, venomous smirk in Camilla’s direction before spinning around and storming out of the house to follow Margo.

The heavy oak door slammed shut.

Left standing in the heavy, oppressive silence of the aftermath, Camilla did not move. Her shoulder still ached from Beatrice’s shove. Her chest felt tight, the air trapped in her lungs as she violently swallowed her heartbreak. The reality of her position had never been clearer. She was nothing to him. A nuisance. A piece of paper.

She forced herself to unclench her fists. She smoothed down the fabric of her delicate gown, the dress she had put on with such foolish, fragile hope just an hour ago. She looked up at Roman. He was already turning toward the dining room, looking at his watch, completely unaffected by the scene that had just torn her apart.

"Roman," she called out, her voice soft but steady.

He stopped and cast a glance over his shoulder.

"May I prepare your breakfast?" she asked. "You have not eaten yet."

Roman stared at her for a long, silent moment. His eyes betrayed no sympathy, no guilt, no warmth. He gave a brief, indifferent nod. "Fine. Do not waste my time."

He continued into the dining room, leaving her alone in the foyer.

Camilla took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen. She moved mechanically at first, pulling out the pans, cracking the eggs, toasting the bread. But as the quiet hum of the kitchen surrounded her, her resolve hardened. She had told Valerie that she was his wife, and she meant it. She had thirty days. Thirty days to endure this humiliation, thirty days to secure the child she so desperately wanted. She would not let Margo, Beatrice, or Valerie steal this opportunity from her.

Five minutes later, Camilla returned to the dining room. She carried a silver tray holding a perfectly arranged meal—eggs sunny-side up, crisp toast, hot coffee, and a napkin folded with precise care.

Roman sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table, his attention focused entirely on the tablet in his hands, scrolling through financial documents.

Camilla approached quietly and set the tray down in front of him. The clink of the porcelain made him pause, but he did not look up immediately.

She walked around the table and took a seat directly across from him. She folded her hands in her lap, her knuckles white. She sat in silence as he picked up his fork and knife, cutting into his food with mechanical efficiency.

She watched him. She noted the strong line of his jaw, the broad set of his shoulders beneath his shirt. He was a terrifying, beautiful man. And he had made a promise.

Camilla hesitated for a long moment. Her heart hammered against her ribs, urging her to stay quiet, to just let him eat and leave for work. But the memory of his thumb pressing into her chin in the garden, the memory of his dark promise, pushed her forward. She had to gather her courage to speak.

"Roman," she asked him softly.

He did not stop cutting his food, but he let out a low hum to acknowledge her.

"Have you forgotten your promise from the garden?" she asked, keeping her voice even, though her fingers trembled in her lap. "I merely wanted to remind you."

Roman set down his cutlery with a deliberate, slow motion. He dragged his gaze away from his tablet and looked at her. His face was a blank, neutral expression, an impenetrable wall of ice.

He answered with a simple, chilling, "No."

The single syllable hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken tension. He had not forgotten. He knew exactly what she had demanded of him.

Camilla forced a faint smile to her lips, masking the terror and the desperate hope swirling inside her. "Good," she replied. "Because I intend to keep my end of the bargain. I promise that I will fulfill all my duties as your wife. I will prepare your meals. I will organize your documents for work. I will manage the household." She paused, her voice dropping a fraction lower. "I will do everything a normal married couple would do."

Roman stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. The mention of a 'normal married couple' clearly grated on his nerves. He let out a heavy sigh, raising a hand to briefly massage his temples in deep annoyance.

"Listen to me," Roman warned, his voice low and dangerous. "I want absolutely no unnecessary drama. What happened this morning with Valerie and my family—keep it contained. You know the limits of our deal, Camilla. You pushed for these thirty days. Do not make me regret agreeing to this foolishness."

His words were designed to put her back in her place, to remind her that this was a transaction, a temporary inconvenience he was tolerating.

But Camilla did not look away. She steadied her breathing, pulling air into her tight lungs. She let go of the fear. She let go of the humiliation Valerie had heaped upon her. Her brown eyes locked fiercely onto his without a single hint of hesitation.

"I promise not to make you regret it," she said, her voice ringing with a newfound clarity.

Roman watched her, seemingly caught off guard by the strength in her gaze. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

Then, she pushed the boundary. She leaned forward slightly, closing the emotional distance between them across the vast expanse of the dining table.

"But I want one single thing this morning," she requested.

Roman’s brow furrowed. "What?"

Camilla held his stare, baring her vulnerability and her boldness all at once. "Give me a morning kiss."