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(Camila and her celebrity online boyfriend - Her Prince Charming is an asshole)

Episode 18
I snorted. 
“Hot chocolate?” He suggested as I found a seat close to the heater. 
“Hot chocolate.” I affirmed.
I rubbed my hands together as I settled. Looking around for Nico. 
My cell buzzed in my purse.
It was Daisy. 
“Arab woman.” I hailed. 
She giggled into the phone. “Missing me already?” She joked. 
I’d be darned if I agreed to that. “I guess you’ve arrived the Emirates safely.”
“Basil just collected me from the airport and we were currently riding home. The sun here is scalding.” She replied. 
Clinton brought me a cup of hot chocolate and I muttered him a note of thanks. “The cold here’s chilling.” I took a sip of the chocolate. “How’s Basil handling the news?” 
“He’s being all macho...” I heard a brief noise on the background. “He wishes to speak with you.”
I was surprised he asked. Basil didn’t ask. He merely collected. That was how he won Daisy.
 “Alright, sure.”
“Baby girl,” his smooth voice called. 
“Hey, macho boy.”
I heard Daisy laugh hysterically in the background. 
“I see. Daisy says you won’t be coming for the burial?”
“I’ll -” 
“The dates are clashing, remember?” Daisy whispered to Basil in her own Daisy way. 
“Actually, I might be able to make it,” It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about right now.
“Long story cut short. Mami’s wedding is shifted for a later date, okay?” I flatly said. 
She must have sensed the discomfort in my voice. “I’m sorry babe,” She sympathized. 
“It’s okay.”
“Take care, baby girl, we’re being pull over by a cop.” Basil grunted.
I laughed. “Alright. Have fun.”
I took another long sip of the hot chocolate, savoring how it warmed me up. 
I craved for solid food. 
My phone buzzed again. I frowned. It was from the workplace where I did my internship. 
I opened the message.
Brenda: Oh boy! Boss is pissed. A postman delivered a personal parcel in your name using the office’s address. Come urgently, if you still value your job. 
What the... 
Me: I don’t use the office address for personal business. I’m not that stupid. 
I looked up and met Clinton walking to me with the menu list.
I hastily drank up the last of the liquid, grabbing my purse. “Ain’t you ordering?” 
My stomach groaned.
“Laters. Clinton. Work calls.” I said standing. I handed him my debit card.
He eyed it ridiculously. “Seriously, Camille? 
Alright. I didn’t have time for this.
“I’ll bring Daisy next time. Hand over my umbrella?” 
I stood akimbo staring at the wrapped ‘parcel’. It was a smallest sized box. 
CAMILLA JACOBS written in neat calligraphy was neatly sellotaped on it. 
This was absurd. 
What if this was a bomb letter? 
With shaky hands, I begin to unwrap it. 
Five minutes later, I kept staring at the the invitation letter. And a black lace masquerade facial mask with feathers and crystals. 
Masquerade ball. 7pm. Come alone. Dress to impress. I’ll send my driver.
Who the heck would have sent this? 
I skimmed through...
...and got to the part where it says, signed. 
Bluidy hell. 

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