The Waitress With a PhD Who Silenced a Arrogant And Rude Billionaire
Chapter 4
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"Mama, don't." Camille leaned forward, taking her mother's hand. "We've been through this. You took care of me my whole life. Now it's my turn.""But your studies, your futureโ""Will still be there," Camille said, though she didn't quite believe it. Every day away from the Sorbonne felt like another door closing. "Right now, you're what matters."Gloria squeezed her daughter's hand. "You're too good, Camille. Too kind. The world doesn't always reward that, you know.""I know," Camille whispered. "But what else can I be?"That night, lying in her small bed in the room next to her mother's, Camille stared at the ceiling. The streetlight outside cast bright patterns across the white paint. She thought about Theodore Lancaster and his cruel German words. She thought about her unfinished dissertation, still saved on her laptop, gathering digital dust. She thought about the life she had left behind and the life she was living now.Somewhere between the two was the person she used to be: smart, accomplished, respected. That person felt like a ghost now, haunting the edges of her memory.But ghosts could return. Camille had to believe that. She had to believe that someday, somehow, things would get better; that kindness would be rewarded; that hope wasn't foolish; that love, in whatever form it took, would find a way.She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer she'd been praying for six months:Please, just let us make it through this. Please let there be something better waiting.The ceiling didn't answer. The streetlight kept casting its bright, indifferent glow. And somewhere across the city, in a penthouse apartment she couldn't even imagine, Theodore Lancaster probably wasn't thinking about her at all.The morning light came through the thin curtains, bright and unforgiving. Camille woke before her alarm, as she always did now. Her body had learned to run on five hours of sleep, though her mind protested with a dull ache behind her eyes. She got up quietly, not wanting to wake her mother.The apartment was small: two bedrooms, a kitchen that opened into a living room, one bathroom with tiles that had been white once but were now a dingy cream. The walls were pale blue, the furniture was secondhand, but everything was clean; Camille made sure of that.In the kitchen, she started coffee and took out her mother's medications: seven different bottles, each with specific instructions. Two with breakfast, one before breakfast, three with dinner, one at bedtime. Camille had them memorized, but she still checked the labels every morning. A mistake could be dangerous.Gloria shuffled in around 7:00, moving slowly. She wore a green bathrobe that Camille had bought her last Christmas, back when there was still money for gifts."Morning, baby," Gloria said, easing herself into a kitchen chair. The yellow tablecloth was cheerful, at odds with the worry in her eyes."Morning, Mama." Camille set down a plate of eggs and toast. "Eat these with your morning pills."