Camila Davis froze, her eyes wide as she turned to look at her mentor. She never expected he’d actually speak up and, worse, scold her in front of everyone.
Mr. Morris was seething, his face red with anger and a glint of disappointment—and, somewhere deep in his eyes, a flicker of genuine concern.
Camila had walked into the evening’s gala feeling numb, but that look from Mr. Morris hit her hard. Suddenly, her vision blurred with unshed tears.
She opened her mouth, but the words tangled on her tongue. At last, she managed a shaky apology. “I’m sorry, sir. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have ignored your advice all those years ago.”
The room fell silent, the clinking of wine glasses and laughter dying in an instant.
Then, like a clap of thunder, the whispers erupted.
“Did she just say what I think she said?”
“Am I hearing things?”
“Did Camila Davis just call Mr. Morris her… what? Mentor? Master?”
“I must be losing it.”
“Hold on—if Camila really is Mr. Morris’s protégé, then his earlier comments make sense. He said Mr. Smith didn’t appreciate his skills…”
“So what, Camila treated his leg for him years ago, and he just tossed her aside?”
Jordan Smith and Sandra Taylor stood frozen by the main table, their shock plain for all to see. Others around them could have doubted their ears, but Jordan and Sandra were close enough to hear every word. Camila had called Mr. Morris her ‘mentor’—there was no mistaking it.
The guests at the head table all stared at Camila, mouths agape.
Wait a minute. This young woman is Mr. Morris’s protégé?
Mr. Mark was the first to speak, his voice cautious. “Mr. Morris, is it true? Is Ms. Davis really your student?”

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