(Elise's POV)
Damien and Rosalind hadn't come home last night.
After Adam died, Camille had moved out of the Holloway estate - too many painful memories, she'd said. She was living in a penthouse apartment downtown now. I didn't need to guess where they'd spent the night.
I packed my documents into my bag, straightened my coat, and pushed open the bedroom door.
Margaret was already in the living room, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, a cup of red tea in her hand. She looked up at me with that particular expression she reserved exclusively for me.
"Up so early?" She took a slow sip. "I half expected you to spend the entire morning in bed playing the tragic heroine."
Yesterday I would have stopped. Lowered my head. Waited for it to be over. Because I knew exactly how Margaret saw me - a housekeeper's daughter, low-born, nothing compared to the Whitford family's Camille, who could bring real prestige to this family.
Today I adjusted my collar, glanced at her sideways, and kept walking.
"Morning, Margaret. Lovely mood as always." I didn't break my stride toward the door. "Someone in this house has to go do something actually useful. We can't all just sit around drinking tea and judging people."
The study was my next stop. I needed my passport - the law firm required identification.
I pulled open my own drawer. Empty. Damien had consolidated all the important documents into the center drawer of his desk months ago. I started searching through it, fingers moving through folders and envelopes.
My hand hit something at the very back. Hard plastic. A phone.
I pulled it out. An old iPhone - the backup phone Damien had used a few years ago. I'd assumed he'd thrown it out when he upgraded.
I held down the power button. The screen lit up and went straight to the home screen. No passcode. He'd never set one on this phone, because he'd never expected anyone to touch it.
The photo library opened. The first album was labeled with a single letter: "S."
I tapped it.
There were hundreds of photos. Camille, photographed without her knowledge. The earliest timestamp was eight years ago - Camille at a wedding, her face in profile, standing as a bridesmaid. I scrolled forward through time. Camille reading in a garden with sunlight in her hair. Camille tucking a strand of hair behind her ear while pouring wine for Adam. Camille laughing, holding a small dog. Eight years of photographs. Eight years.
I scrolled to the bottom of the album and found a screenshot of a notes app. The date on the screenshot was six years ago. The day of my own wedding.
Damien had written one line: I got married today. She looks like Camille from behind. That has to count for something.
I stood in the study without moving.
I swallowed the nausea and kept scrolling.