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I was still arguing with myself, and blushing profusely, when I turned a corner, and bumped into an older woman, dressed in black, carrying a tray laden with breakfast items.
Luckily, she was more alert than I was and managed to rescue the tray.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, absolutely mortified. She had to be Renzo’s housekeeper. Was she wondering what the heck I was doing here?
But when she smiled, she didn’t seem surprised.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. I have breakfast for you, on Monsieur Camaro’s orders.’
‘Oh.’ My stomach twisted, at the realisation that finding strange women in Renzo’s apartment in the morning was perfectly normal for her.
I was just one of many, I knew that, but having it made so clear to me made my stomach hurt. My gaze skated over the tray—flaky croissants, an array of exotic fruit, something under a silver hood that smelt almost as delicious as the scent of freshly brewed coffee. But I had never felt less hungry in my entire life.
‘Where is Monsieur Camaro?’ I asked, before I could stop myself.
The woman smiled again, but this time it was tinged with pity.
‘He has returned to his estate in Cap Ferrat,mademoiselle, early this morning.’
What? Really?
‘Oh, right, I see,’ I mumbled, trying to sound upbeat and as if I knew he wouldn’t be there.
But even though I had been expecting the brush-off, had steeled myself for such an eventuality, I was still shocked he hadn’t even stuck around long enough to say goodbye. Or to find out who I was.
Because he doesn’t care—now he’s bedded you, he’s finished with you.
‘He says, you may stay here as long as you wish. Myself and the rest of the staff are at your disposal,’ she added gently. ‘He asked for me to purchase you clothes so you may leave with dignity,’ she finished, horrifying me even more.
Seriously? He had arranged to have my torn panties replaced? The mortification engulfed me, right alongside that miserable feeling of being a burden which had marred so much of my childhood.
I nodded, suddenly desperate to get away as soon as possible. But she insisted on leading me to a guest suite, where an array of expensive designer clothes, all in my exact size, awaited me—including what I suspected was extremely pricey underwear.
I actually wanted to die. But I forced myself to wait until she left. I slipped on a pair of the plainest panties I could find—deciding it was okay to replace the underwear he’d torn—but I didn’t take anything else. The vague sense he was paying me for sex—possibly even for my virginity—made the grinding pain in my stomach worse.
I wanted to hate him, as I rushed out of the back entrance of the palatial residence, and returned to my hotel. But the hate I wanted to feel—the hate that might cover the aching pain of his summary rejection—wouldn’t come.
I spent the next week in Paris in a daze, going over every single second of our interaction in minute detail.
When I returned to Nice, it was obvious that something serious was going on between Belle and Alexis, so I decided not to burden my cousin with the tawdry tale of my one blissful night in Renzo Camaro’s arms.
A month later, I discovered the foolish aching pain in my heart—and the empty space in my gut—wasn’t the only thing Camaro had left me with.
I didn’t think of him as Renzo anymore, after all he didn’t even know my name.
I returned to London, unable to confide in Belle about my pregnancy—which didn’t even seem real. How could this have happened? I forced myself to contact his office. Forced myself not to feel embarrassed. I was going to have his child. And he had a right to know.
I wasn’t the only one responsible after all.
But my attempts to make contact with him failed. I cursed my stupid decision not to tell him my name. But after a while I began to sense it was not the fact I couldn’t identify myself—or had to be so cryptic while communicating with a series of his many assistants—that was stopping him from returning my calls.
My suspicions were confirmed when I received a single text from his executive assistant, ten long weeks after our one night together.
Monsieur Camaro has asked me to wire you five thousand euro and request that you do not attempt to contact him again.
I was shell-shocked, dazed by the callousness of the text. He didn’t know I was pregnant, because I hadn’t told any of the many people I had spoken to while trying to reach him in person. But even so, it was clear he had decided I was some kind of gold-digger. The thought sickened and humiliated me—and made me feel like my mother, a woman I had always sworn I would never emulate.
A woman who had clung to men, who had searched desperately for love in all the wrong places because she needed their validation, because she had no self-esteem of her own.
