Part 3 : The Opening Clash
Staring daggers, the two women circled each other like wolves in silk. The heat of the chamber clung to their skin, glistening at the throat and collarbone.
Roxanne struck first.
Her hand lashed across Camilla’s cheek, leaving a blooming red imprint across the porcelain skin. Camilla reeled—but only for a second. She snapped back with her own slap, her palm connecting with a vicious smack that sent Roxanne’s chestnut-brown hair whipping through the air in a wild arc.
Their gazes locked again—breathing heavy, silk robes fluttering open at the collar—and something in their eyes flashed with shared venom.
The sunlight filtered through white parasols in the manicured back garden of one of their mutual “friends,” casting the table in a warm, late-spring glow. Crystal glasses clinked gently over a spread of blood-orange mimosas, tiny smoked salmon tarts, and avocado crostini that no one really ate.
Camilla sat perched at the head of the long outdoor table, posture perfect, her cream-colored blouse barely creasing as she crossed one long leg over the other. Her eyes slid over to Roxanne—dressed just a shade too bold for brunch, that coral wrap dress a little too loud for the muted crowd.
“I have to say,” Camilla said, her voice sugar-smooth but just loud enough for everyone to hear, “your latest blog post was… brave.”
Roxanne looked up from her drink. “Brave?”
Camilla smiled, sipping her own mimosa. “Yes. You tackled public health, personal aging, and holistic parenting all in one post. That’s quite the editorial ambition—for someone without media training.”
A few of the women at the table gave tight, polite chuckles. One of them choked slightly on her bellini.
Roxanne didn’t flinch. She merely reached for her napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth, and turned her body slightly toward Camilla with a practiced elegance.
“Well,” she said, voice velvet over steel, “better to speak for myself than to hide behind someone else’s last name.”
Camilla’s eyes narrowed, just for a breath. The laugh that followed was airier than before—cooler, a degree removed.
One of the other women quickly changed the subject, something about an upcoming gala. But the tension had already curled through the table like a vine.
Back in the present, the tension broke like glass. They surged together in a wild grapple, hands clutching, silk slipping from their shoulders. The front panels of their robes fell open as their chests collided, breasts mashing through the thin fabric.
“Looks like it’s been some years since your last mastopexy,” Roxanne sneered, her voice thick with scorn.
Camilla’s grip tightened on her opponent’s arms. “Still hawking that blog of yours? I suppose mediocrity needs a spotlight too.”
Roxanne shoved forward, pressing her shoulder into Camilla’s chest, driving her toward the pool’s edge. Camilla backpedaled, heels slapping against slick marble. Steam licked at her calves as one foot skidded over the ledge. Her balance faltered—but her instincts did not.
She dropped one arm and slammed a tight, brutal fist into Roxanne’s gut.
The brunette gasped and crumpled to one knee. Camilla seized a handful of hair and wrenched her upright—then flung her toward the shelving.
Roxanne careened into a rack of incense jars, splintering wood and sending brass burners clattering across the floor. She crumpled against the marble wall behind it, gasping, incense smoke coiling around her in thin gray ribbons.
Camilla approached like a queen in battle.
But Roxanne lunged from the wreckage with a hiss. Her fingers caught the lobe of Camilla’s ear.
“Still clinging to these little symbols of class?” she snarled—and
yanked.
Camilla screamed.
The diamond stud tore through her earlobe, leaving behind a tiny red arc of blood trailing its path. She staggered back, clutching her ear, her fury rising—
—and just like that, she was gone from the ritual, lost in memory.
The ballroom at the Fairmont was Camilla’s territory.
She knew the way the crystal chandeliers scattered light across the floor. She knew which step of the string quartet’s setlist would make the donors loosen their wallets. She’d founded the Children’s Arts Fund fifteen years ago — every ribbon-cutting and annual pledge dinner bore her fingerprints.
So when she glided past the silent auction toward the VIP table, Camilla wasn’t worried. She’d worn midnight-blue Versace — elegant but understated — and the diamond studs from her grandmother’s debutante ball. People turned as she passed, murmuring hellos. As they should.
And there, near the front, sat Roxanne.
Crimson silk. Full glam. Surrounded by her table of donors — many of them new faces. A lifestyle blogger’s following turned into social capital.
Camilla offered a gracious smile as she approached. “Roxanne,” she said, tilting her head. “What a pleasant surprise. I was just telling the advisory board how well our girls have gotten along lately—”
Roxanne glanced up, slow and deliberate. Her smile was small and sugar-slick.
“How sweet,” she said. “Though I suppose we’ve grown more selective about which foundations we support these days. Especially those with… legacy gatekeeping.”
A few people at the table shifted uncomfortably. One man sipped his wine too quickly.
Camilla’s smile froze. “I wasn’t aware inclusion had a dress code,” she replied lightly, though her eyes gleamed.
Roxanne raised her champagne flute, unconcerned. “Oh, I wouldn’t say dress code. More like… energy. Who actually lets new voices in. You know.”
She clinked her glass against the woman next to her. “Lisette and I were just saying how important it is to back institutions that reflect the future of philanthropy.”
Lisette gave a carefully diplomatic smile — but her gaze stayed on Roxanne.
Camilla stood poised, shoulders squared. She said nothing more. She didn’t have to.
But as she turned away, something cold settled under her skin. And behind her, Roxanne’s voice rose in a lilting laugh — loud enough for Camilla to hear.
“You bitch,” Camilla hissed, clutching her bleeding earlobe, crimson slipping between her manicured fingers.
“You always tear down anyone who climbs higher than you,” Roxanne snapped back, driving a wild right hook—
But Camilla stepped back with icy grace, letting the blow cut empty air.
She surged in. With a twist, she wrenched Roxanne’s arm behind her back and grabbed a fistful of chestnut hair, jerking her forward.
Then slammed her forehead into the jagged remains of the shattered incense shelf.
Wood splinters bit into Roxanne’s brow, carving a bloody gash across it. Red welled up instantly, streaking down her temple like war paint.
“This,” Camilla sneered into her ear, “is for my fucking ear, bitch.”
Roxanne bit down a cry, eyes flaring with pain—and fury. She drove her free elbow backward, slamming it into Camilla’s ribs with a dull smack.
Camilla staggered, letting go with a gasp.
Roxanne spun and lunged—shoulders low, rage high. The two women smashed together with a full-bodied thud, breasts flattening against each other in a wet, meaty slap. Silk robes flared as they grappled, hands tangled in sweat-slick hair, snarling wordlessly as they twisted and yanked, trying to rip superiority from one another by the roots.
They stumbled. Their legs tangled. And they fell to the marble floor in a skin-on-skin sprawl, a brutal thwack echoing in the steamy chamber.
Camilla landed on top, forcing a sharp “Oof—!” from Roxanne’s lungs.
She seized the moment, crawling up her rival’s gasping body, straddling her chest. Roxanne’s head rocked back, her hands scrabbling at Camilla’s thighs as the blonde settled on her, grinding in close.
Roxanne stilled as she felt Camilla’s wetness on her—just for a beat—then spat, her voice hoarse with revulsion:
“You’re getting off on this… aren’t you? You sick, Botoxed bitch.”
Camilla’s eyes glittered. She smiled like a queen admiring a toppled peasant.
“Breaking you after you dared to challenge me?” Her voice was honeyed poison. “Of course I’m getting off.”
She shifted forward—slow, deliberate—until her soaked womanhood pressed against Roxanne’s outraged, struggling face.
“Tell me I am getting off as much as you did with Mayor Williams ?”
She smeared herself across her rival’s features with obscene satisfaction—
—and as Roxanne writhed beneath her, a memory surged.
The restaurant was upscale, discreet, and perched atop one of the city’s private clubs. No menus—just “chef’s discretion.” Camilla sat across from Candace Ellis, society columnist for The Capital View, sipping a crisp Sancerre with the kind of practiced elegance that made people forget she used to fence in college.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Camilla said softly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a monogrammed napkin. “But Roxanne’s been seen… quite often… at the Lancer Building. You know, the fertility clinic?” She raised a brow, letting the implication hang, utterly weightless yet heavy enough to sink a yacht.
Candace blinked. “Wait—at her age?”
Camilla smiled—chilly, polite. “I’d never speculate. But I do know it’s where the city councilor’s husband did his last ‘consultation.’ You understand.”
She didn’t say more. She didn’t have to. Candace’s fingers were already gliding across her phone screen under the table, filing it away. Camilla simply took another sip of wine, crossed her legs, and turned to the window.
By brunch on Sunday, The Capital View would feature an “anonymous tip” in its whisper column: “One local lifestyle blogger may be exploring late-life surprises — or other people’s husbands.”
Roxanne twisted her head to the side, choking back the bile rising in her throat, and sank her teeth into Camilla’s thigh. The metallic taste of blood crept across her tongue as the blonde shrieked and scrambled off her perch.
Pushing up onto all fours, Roxanne spat the blood to the side. “My daughter was teased so badly she couldn’t face school for a month while I buried those rumours,” she snarled, rising to her feet. “And you think I didn’t know it was you?” Her voice dropped into a hiss. “Your fingerprints were all over that headline.”
With a sharp tug, she stripped off her disheveled robe and let it fall to the floor like a gauntlet.
Camilla staggered back a step, then straightened. A low, wry chuckle escaped her lips. She loosened the sash at her waist and let her robe slip from her shoulders, silk pooling at her feet as if answering the challenge.
Continued in Part 4...
