A/N: I haven't posted or updated anything on Fictionpress in so long; I took down everything I wrote except one story. I don't know why; I guess I got discouraged by the lack of support, so I'll try one more time, starting with just 2 stories.
Note: Alright, this is a pilot chapter, so it will be short.
Camille didn't like children. Her job had nothing to do with them. She was a graphic designer for a growing business in the metropolitan area of San Francisco. She lived alone in her two-bedroom apartment in the quiet city of Concord, which wasn't all the way ritzy, but not dirt poor either. She had neighbors, but they were gone most of the day and she worked from home, so she was free from the common noises of daily life.
She grew up in a big family: two older brothers and three older sisters, all of which loved to tease and annoy her with their seniority cards. The moment she was able to afford her own place, she was gone. Her kitchen was hers to cook in, her bathroom was hers to keep clean. Everything she owned in her apartment, she bought on her own: her flat screen TV, her bookshelves and even the expensive hemp blankets on her Queen sized bed.
If someone dropped food on her carpet, she had a heart attack. If someone slammed a cabinet too loud or put a plate on the counter instead of in the drain to dry, she would lose it.
But rather than give in to her first instinct, she maintained complete control over her emotions, keeping a tight reign on them. A little bit of shopping, a massage, some exercise; it all did the trick of mitigating her frustrations over the micromanaging of her home.
Her boyfriend, Paul, loved it. He was the typical, clean-shaven, precisely manicured man with an established career in tax law. He woke up promptly at 6 in the morning to shower, eat, then visit Camille before work. He never sent text messages; he only called her because he felt messaging was 'too immature' for a woman like her, although she wouldn't be twenty six until the fall of 2011 and even fifty-something year old men and women were texting. When they went out to eat, he requested that she always wear a dress and heels, and that she only made eye contact with him because he was suspicious of the friendly waiter who was only trying to do his job. Paul had even managed to tell her what decorations to put in her apartment.
And Camille went right along with everything he said.
Close to a year into their relationship, Paul proposed; she said yes, much to her siblings' dismay. They had all agreed not to like him upon their initial meeting. She did not care, and their warnings about him being a control freak fell on the deaf, naive ears of their baby sister. She refused to give them power over her again.
Her mother had no say in the matter; her indifference spoke volumes to the young woman, but Mrs. McMahon went along with the plans for the bridal party and invitations anyway. It was the motherly thing to do.
Then, as sudden as the planning began, it was over; Paul called it off, saying Camille wasn't the right woman for him.
She was devastated. Boxes of tissues, days of lamenting, and nights of mourning bled into weeks that turned into months that eventually became almost a year once she was fully recovered.
Paul had moved away to Atlanta to establish his law offices there now that his father had invested money into his central location in the heart of San Francisco. There was no risk of running into him anymore; she could roam the streets freely without having to cut around a corner to compose herself because of him.
After close to two years in her apartment, Camille decided to move closer to her place of work, living in a single-bedroom house near Ocean Beach on the far end of San Francisco. It was a quiet enough neighborhood with plenty of space to fill with her personality.
Once she was settled, everything seemed to fall back into place.
Until one night, she got a visit from a perfect stranger.
Camille figured someone had had a baby with them that night and it had woken up because of the chilly Bay air. But the crying only grew louder as time passed; it sounded like it was right outside her door.
Suspicious and cautious, Camille went to her front door with a bat in hand and opened it slightly. There was a woman at her doorstep with a crying child in her hands, no more than a year old.
The woman's eyes looked quite familiar, and her next words were almost too softly spoken to hear. "Please help me."
Cliffhanger! Okay, haven't done one of those in a while.
So...who is this mysterious woman standing on Camille's doorstep so late at night? We shall find out in a future chapter!
As I said before, this is a prologue, so everything is very vague and broadly described. I'll focus more on Camille's life once the ball gets rolling. I promise there will be romance and fluff and drama-y'know, the good stuff.