You Don't Love Me

The shocking words fell heavily into the silent meeting room like a massive pebble dropped into completely still waters, rippling outward with a quiet but devastating impact.

Camilla sat frozen for a fraction of a second. The camera continued to record, the small red light blinking rhythmically. She instantly forced herself to compose her features. Her spine stiffened, and a mechanical, polite smile stretched across her lips.

"That is huge news," Camilla said, offering her incredibly stiff congratulations. "Congratulations, Mr. Vance. I wish you and your fiancée all the best."

Desmond remained silent. His mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line as he watched her, seemingly waiting for a crack in her armor, a flicker of the devastation that was tearing through her chest. But Camilla gave him nothing.

"Thanks for coming in today, Mr. Vance," she said, wrapping up the interview with clinical precision. She extended her hand.

He took it briefly. His skin was warm, his grip firm, but he averted his gaze almost immediately. A moment later, he walked out of the room, leaving behind a vacuum of heavy air.

Garrison, her producer, let out a frustrated groan the second the door clicked shut. "Come on, Camilla! You had him cornered. You should have kept pushing to find out who the fiancée is. That is the kind of scoop we are after."

Camilla barely heard him. Her mind was actively racing with a million fractured thoughts, piecing together the timeline and the casual cruelty of his announcement.

Back out on the bustling main office floor, the air practically buzzed with excited, relentless gossip. Keyboards clattered, but the usual work chatter had been hijacked by the presence of the Omnicrest Group's impossibly handsome, newly engaged billionaire CEO.

"Did you get a good look at him?" one of the junior editors gushed. "He is gorgeous. Over six feet tall, easy. The kind of guy who could make any girl feel protected."

"I know," another coworker sighed dreamily. "But let's not get carried away. He is already off the market. Engaged to a beauty queen. It is like something out of a fairy tale."

Camilla walked past their desks, her steps wooden. Usually, she was the vibrant center of such lively workplace chatter, throwing in witty remarks and steering the conversation. Today, she remained unusually silent and deeply lost in her own heavy thoughts. She closed the door to her small office and leaned back against the wood. The stark, absolute realization washed over her. Any lingering, foolish chances of reconnecting with Desmond were now permanently gone. He was moving on, building a future that had no space for her.

But romantic mourning was a luxury she could not afford. Her harsh, pressing reality quickly overshadowed the sting of his engagement.

Later that evening, Camilla stood at the counter of the local pharmacy, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The pharmacist pushed a small paper bag across the counter.

"That will be one hundred and thirty dollars, ma'am," the cashier stated.

Camilla swallowed hard. Purchasing the necessary, expensive medicine for her recovering son, Callum, was non-negotiable. She opened her payment app, tapping the screen to confirm the transaction. The digital receipt popped up, along with her updated bank balance. The purchase nearly entirely wiped out her incredibly fragile bank account. A knot of pure panic tightened in her stomach.

She walked out into the fading daylight and slid into the driver's seat of her beloved white Porsche, an artifact from a past life she could no longer sustain. The fuel light on the dashboard glared at her, glowing bright orange. Stranded on the dim roadside with a near-empty gas tank and dwindling funds, she pulled into a local station and stared at the pump options.

The manufacturer's strict requirement for her luxury vehicle was premium 95 octane. It was a rule she used to follow religiously. But looking at the price difference, she made a calculated, reluctant choice. She lifted the nozzle and pumped the significantly cheaper 92 octane gas into her car, entirely ignoring the requirement.

"Excuse me, ma'am," the gas station attendant called out, stepping out from the booth. "Are you sure about that? A car like that really requires the 95 to run right."

Camilla flushed, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up her neck. "Yeah, the 92 is fine. It will be okay," she insisted, turning back to the pump.

The attendant shrugged and walked away. The desperate compromise saved her a few dollars, but the victory felt hollow.

She merged back onto the highway, hoping to just get home and sleep. But the decision quickly proved to be incredibly costly. Just miles down the dark road, the Porsche violently grumbled. A loud, ominous knocking sound echoed from deep within the engine block. Camilla gripped the steering wheel as the car shuddered.

Suddenly, a thick oily odor blasted through the air vents, filling the cabin with a deeply ominous scent. Plumes of dark smoke began to hiss out from under the hood. The dashboard lit up with a terrifying array of warning lights before the engine completely died on the shoulder of the highway.

Camilla muscled the unpowered steering wheel, coasting the dead vehicle onto the narrow shoulder. She stepped out into the chilly air, coughing as the acrid smoke swirled around her. The highway was desolate. She stood by the smoking hood, shivering in her thin blazer, frantically waving her arms at the occasional headlights that swept past.

Minutes dragged on. Finally, a pair of bright LED headlights slowed down. A gleaming, familiar luxury car smoothly pulled over to the side of the road, its hazard lights flashing against the asphalt.

The heavy door swung open. Desmond stepped out into the cold. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened, yet his casual, entirely arrogant swagger remained fully intact as he approached her stranded form. He stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes scanning the smoke billowing from the front of the Porsche.

"Looks like you need some help," he noted dryly, assessing the smoking vehicle.

Camilla crossed her arms over her chest, fiercely protective of her independence. She hated that he was the one to find her like this. "I've got it under control," she immediately insisted, lifting her chin.

Just as the words left her mouth, a loud, metallic clank echoed from the undercarriage, followed by a loud, ominous growl that perfectly betrayed her blatant lie.

Desmond completely ignored her protests. He walked right past her, smoothly popping the hood of the Porsche. A fresh cloud of black smoke plumed upward. He reached down into the hot, greasy mechanical layout. When he finally pulled his hands back, his meticulously manicured hands were quickly stained with thick, dark oil.

He wiped them on a rag he pulled from his pocket, his jaw set in a hard line. He slammed the hood shut with a heavy thud.

"How'd you let this happen?" Desmond questioned, his voice carrying a harsh, judgmental edge. "Your car's engine is a complete wreck. Do you even bother to maintain it at all?"

Camilla stared at the ground. The truth was a bitter pill she didn't want to swallow in front of him. "I've been putting off the service for over two years now," she admitted quietly, her eyes glued to the asphalt in shame.

Desmond let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "Camilla, you've let this beautiful car slide into ruin ever since we split," he chides her. His tone was a mix of frustration and disbelief. "I used to handle all the upkeep, but now it's all completely on you."

She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to cry. With her vehicle definitively out of commission, Desmond effortlessly took control. He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and ordered a premium tow truck to their exact location.

"Get in my car," he ordered, gesturing to his idling luxury sedan.

"I can wait for the tow truck—"

"Get in the car, Camilla," he practically insisted, leaving no room for argument.

Defeated, she walked over and slid into the warm passenger seat. Desmond got in behind the wheel, throwing the car into drive. During the tense ride, the heavy silence between them was suffocating. The rhythmic hum of the tires against the road only seemed to amplify the unspoken history hanging in the air.

"Briarwood Estates is far from your usual route," Desmond noted, breaking the quiet. "What were you doing all the way out here?"

"I caught a stubborn cold," she claimed quietly, staring out the passenger window. "I was returning from the hospital."

Desmond’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He abruptly stopped the car at a corner pharmacy. Without a word, he unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the night.

Camilla watched in confusion through the glass as he strode into the store. He unexpectedly returned moments later, opening her door and dropping a heavy bag into her lap.

She looked inside. It was stuffed full of premium medicine, a premium heating pad, and a digital thermometer. It was a blatant display of his instinctual caretaking, unchanged despite the deep emotional rift between them.

Staring blankly at the bag in her lap, a sudden, fierce anger bubbled up inside her. Her voice suddenly carried a sharp, undeniable hint of deep resentment.

"You're still playing the field out here, even though Valerie's in the picture now?" she snaps, looking up at him.

Desmond sharply raises a dark eyebrow, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel. The mention of the name caused the temperature in the car to drop. "Valerie?"

"That's her name, isn't it?" Camilla challenges recklessly, the pent-up frustration finally spilling over. "She was your ex, and now she's set to be your brand-new wife. That's the grand plan, isn't it?"

Desmond slowly turns his head. His dark eyes intensely searched her guarded face, looking past her anger.

"Aren't you even slightly jealous, Camilla?" he asks, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a tense energy.

"Jealous?" she shoots back instantly, her defensive walls slamming into place. "Why would I have any logical reason to be?"

Desmond’s jaw tightened. His hand instantly clenches into a tight, white-knuckled fist against the leather steering wheel. He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment before looking back at the road.

"Right," he said, his voice flat, drained of all warmth. "You don't love me, not anymore."

The rest of the drive passed in a crushing, silent void. When the tense ride finally concluded at Briarwood Estates, Camilla hurried to unbuckle and escape. She pushed the heavy car door open.

Desmond looked over at her, the dashboard lights illuminating the exhaustion in his eyes. He let out a heavy, deeply defeated sigh.

"Take care of yourself," he said, the finality in his tone striking her like a physical blow. "We're totally through here. I won't be around to look out for you anymore."

She paused, one foot on the pavement. The words cemented the reality of their fractured lives. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"You too, Desmond," she replies softly, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I genuinely hope things work out with your fiancée."

She stepped out into the cold night and closed the door, not looking back as the luxury car pulled away, its taillights fading into the darkness.

Inside her quiet, incredibly lonely home, the silence was deafening. Camilla kicked off her shoes and walked softly down the hallway. She knelt beside the small bed and pressed a tender kiss to her sleeping son, Callum. He shifted under the blankets, letting out a soft sigh.

In the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, he looked so heartbreakingly much like his father. He had Desmond’s dark hair, the exact same shape of his jaw. He was the very man she was absolutely determined to keep permanently out of their lives. She stroked Callum’s soft cheek, silently promising him that she would figure a way out of this mess.

The very next morning, the reality of her broken-down Porsche hit hard. Without a functioning car, Camilla was forced to face her very first grueling, exhausting subway commute. She stood packed among strangers in the rattling metal train car, holding onto the overhead rail as her feet throbbed. The journey dragged on, a stark contrast to the plush, heated leather of her past life.

Her mounting financial anxieties hit an absolute peak when she finally arrived at the Vanguard media office and logged into the payroll portal. Today was payday. She clicked the glowing icon, expecting to see her usual salary.

The digital pay stub loaded on the screen. Camilla gasped quietly. She had finally received her highly anticipated monthly Vanguard paycheck, only to discover it had been heavily reduced to a mere $2,500.

Lorelei, walking past her desk, noticed Camilla's pale face and leaned in. "They docked your attendance bonus. You have been missing days to take care of your little one."

Camilla stared blindly at the numbers on the monitor. She had missed those days to desperately care for Callum, to take him to the pediatrician, to sit up with him through his fevers. Coming to the terrifying realization that she simply couldn't survive on this meager income, she knew rent alone would swallow the majority of that check.

She resolved with absolute certainty to start her own independent business, to build something that would allow her the flexibility to be a mother and the income to survive.

But every business needed capital. Desperate for seed money, she stared at her phone sitting on the edge of the desk. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she dials a number she hasn't called in years.

"Hello?" a voice answered.

"Hey, Mommy," she says into the receiver, her voice cracking slightly with unshed tears, the thick weight of her profound loneliness threatening to break her.

"Camilla?" her mother, Sylvia, answers. Her tone dripping with sheer surprise, as if hearing a ghost through the receiver.

"Mommy, I'm wondering—" Camilla started, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the phone, ready to pour out her desperate, pleading words.

But her desperate, pleading words are abruptly cut completely short by the piercing, undeniable wail of a young child echoing loudly in the background of her mother's home.