Beneath the Camellias

Odelia lingered beneath the old camellia bush, the fragrant petals brushing her knuckles, dew catching in her wild hair. In the blue hush before dawn, she studied her own reflection in the window's dark pane. The face she saw was still elegant, full of sharp memory—a face that once dazzled crowds and won the city beauty crown, Richard's arm proudly circling her waist. She traced the old line of her jaw, thinking how beauty distils the world's attention yet leaves the soul unguarded.

House 16, Rosary Street, loomed above her, its flawless garden and stern stone fronts a monument to Richard Fong's success. Every detail staged, glass and iron in deliberate symmetry—a house for trophies, not for shelter. Odelia pinched free a pale camellia, marvelling at its delicacy. Her beauty, too, had felt unassailable until the years slowly revealed its fragility.

Richard Fong had married Odelia for her face. He admired her not as a woman, but as a prize befitting his myth: Dr. Fong, the surgeon whose smile glinted like marble, astonishingly handsome, yet unmoved by affection. He paraded her through banquets and ballrooms, a vessel of power. At home, intimacy was a performance; love was always measured against the world's applause. As the lustre thinned, so did his attention.

"Do you ever see me here, when we are alone?" she once whispered, voice fragile with longing.

Richard, eyes fixed on his unread book, murmured, "We are never alone. Beauty is always on display."

Then, she felt the weight of his gaze-a gaze that never probed deeper than her skin. As Odelia aged and admiration faded, Richard's hunger searched for a new reflection.

Enter Natalie, the hospital's newest nurse. Youthful, sun-bright, her laughter is as constant as her pulse. Patients adore her. Richard noticed. He began seeking her, drawn as if to a new talisman, untouched by disappointment or age. Natalie was open and unguarded; she glowed with the sheer novelty of being alive in the world, never yet bitten by disappointment.

Natalie was charmed and startled by Richard's pursuit—his sly touches, lingering glances in sterile corridors, and invitations to stay after hours. Something was dazzling about the attention, yet a frost beneath it. "He feels like sunlight and frost," Natalie confided to Odelia one morning by the coffee machine. Odelia recognised her past reflected in the younger woman's bewildered delight.

Richard's attention, so intoxicating at first, became a cold claim. No precaution. Never asking. Natalie faltered under the weight of it. When she became pregnant, she was frightened and angry.

House 16, Rosary Street. Natalie came to Odelia's door under a pelting rain, eyes huge with panic. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Fong. Please—may I come in?"

Odelia hesitated, heart thudding, then let her inside. They sat, silent and shivering, until Natalie broke: "I can't do this. I'm not ready. He wants the child only for himself, as if I'm just a window for his hopes. Please, I—" She sobbed, the confession breaking between apology and plea for forgiveness.

Odelia felt compassion and a cold echo of her own past fury. She pitied Natalie and envied the clarity of her refusal. Natalie did not want to be a mother—not to Richard's child, not in this way, not now.

That night, as they sat huddled in the quiet, Natalie asked, "Did he ever love you?"

Odelia wrapped her arms around herself. "He loved the mirror I gave him—envy and attention. Maybe he wanted a child, but not for itself; only for his own legacy."

"Do you think he ever loved me?"

With a sad smile, Odelia shook her head. "Only the newness-the way you made him feel admired again. None of this is you."

"I thought if I gave him a child... maybe I'd matter." Natalie's voice was faint and trembling.

Odelia took Natalie's hand. "We are not meant to be vessels for someone else's desires—our worth runs deeper than their gaze."

Odelia struggled with her own turmoil. That small, burgeoning life inside Natalie was a secret seed—innocent, untouched by Richard's callousness. For a moment, Odelia wondered: Was revenge upon Richard worth the cost of ending a life that might have brought its own blessing? Was she protecting Natalie, or punishing Richard? Could forgiveness transform her pain into something softer? The doubt gnawed at her even as she steeled herself against it.

Natalie hesitated for days, confusion and fear distracting her from her decision and leading to doubt. Odelia bore silent witness, torn between vengeance and mercy, until finally Natalie resolved to end the pregnancy. In the grey lull before dawn, they crept to a clinic, Odelia clutching Natalie's hand so tightly that her own fingers ached. When Natalie wept, Odelia stroked her hair, the old urge to forgive clamouring against the new, sharp sense of justice.

Later, they returned to the silent house. In the garden, Odelia knelt, burying torn camellia petals in the soft dirt—her hands raw, her spirit equally so. The gesture felt both sacred and vengeful, a tribute to what might have been. "We choose," she whispered. Whether to Natalie, the earth, or herself, she did not know.

Inside, Richard spun through his rituals, oblivious, presiding over banquets and hospital rounds, the world turning on his pleasure. He believed he moved unseen between women, never suspecting their hidden solidarity.

One pale evening, Odelia set dinner upon the table. The house was quiet, save for Richard's small talk about the hospital and hopes for the future. He never noticed the chill in Odelia's voice or the sadness in her smile. There was no empty seat for Natalie—he still lived in a world where women's lives formed separate, isolated constellations, each circling him secretly.

Partway through his wine, Richard stiffened. He choked, hands clawing at the linen, terror striking through his handsome face. Odelia stood aside, spine straight, gaze steady.

"Odelia—what's happening?" he croaked, eyes wild.

In the doorway, Natalie appeared, pale and fierce—the force of her decision still trembling in her bones. For the first time, Richard saw the eyes of the women meet, realising their unity.

Natalie's voice, sharp and cold, sliced through his panic. "It wasn't just her. We're not invisible anymore. And I drugged your wine."

Richard faltered, breath failing. In that last, dark moment, he glimpsed not the beautiful adornments of his life but the women whose fates he tried to control—and who had chosen instead to claim their own.

Dawn coaxed pale light across the garden as Odelia and Natalie walked away from House 16, Rosary Street, arms touching. House 16 stood behind them, empty at last. Odelia brushed a camellia, its petals soft on her skin. She saw Natalie's reflection in the windows and tried it on for truth.

Words flowed softly from Odelia's lips: "Our stories are no longer vessels for some man's myth. They are not tales of revenge and forgiveness. Our stories are ours—frayed, imperfect." Odelia squeezed Natalie's arm. "At last, they are our own choices. As they always should have been." Natalie returned her smile. "Still, consequences will follow when Richard's body is found." Odelia's eyes glinted. "Perhaps not. Let's take care of the body. Maybe we'll bury it under the camellias, where it's beautiful." The women laughed together.