Echoes of A Foolish Heart

Chapter 1 – A Foolish Love Begins

"Sleep, my little baby girl... how beautiful you are. Sleep, my little baby girl... how beautiful you are. The joy of Heaven smiled on you and blessed me from above. Sleep, my little baby girl. Sleep... sleep in peace..."

That lullaby echoed gently in the dark, a haunting memory dancing through Camilla's mind. Her mother's soft voice-soothing, angelic-drifted in and out like a whisper riding the breeze.

Camilla lay between life and death, floating in a sea of silence. Her body was still, unmoving, but her soul remembered. The kiss on her forehead, the soft hum in her mother's throat, the warmth of her childhood bed. It all wrapped around her now like a blanket she couldn't feel.

Then-chaos.

"Help! Somebody, call 911!"

Markis's voice tore through the void. Panic. Desperation. Camilla could hear the distant cries, the shuffle of feet, the urgency of voices colliding into one another.

Then...

Nothing.

Just the quiet again.

Still.

Weightless.

Camilla slipped further into it, the darkness pulling her under like a tide she couldn't fight. Only silence remained. That thick, terrifying silence.

BEGINNING...

"Hello, Camilla."

Startled, Camilla turned on her heel, her heart thudding against her ribcage. She hadn't heard the door open. She was alone-or so she thought.

Markis Aiden Keys stood at the entrance of the ballet practice room, leaning casually against the doorframe like he belonged there.

"Oh-hi, Markis." She tried to sound indifferent, casual, but even she heard the tremor in her voice. "How are you?"

The question felt silly the moment it left her lips. After all these years, after all that silence between them, that was what she asked?

They hadn't spoken in so long. He'd treated her like a stranger for most of high school, barely acknowledging her presence. Sure, she'd caught him watching her once or twice, eyes following her as she passed him in the halls, but he'd never said a word. Nothing. It was like she didn't exist.

Still, there he was. Talking to her now.

Her mind raced. Why now? Why was he suddenly standing here like nothing had happened? She hated that she still felt fluttery around him. It wasn't fair-he had Cleo, after all. Gorgeous, fiery, confident Cleo Cora Whitley. Everyone knew she had him wrapped around her finger like a ribbon, and Camilla had no intention of getting tangled in that mess.

"I'm magnificent," Markis replied with a grin, one eyebrow lifted like a cocky cat who knew the effect he had. "You look amazing, Camilla."

She blinked. "Amazing?" she repeated, tugging a clean towel from the shelf and patting the sweat from her neck. "What are you talking about?"

He chuckled. "Girl, I've been standing in that doorway for ten minutes watching you rehearse."

She whipped around. "No way. I would've noticed."

"You were in the zone," he said, walking in a little further. "If the ceiling had fallen in, I doubt you'd have flinched."

He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers. "You're incredible. Talented... and beautiful."

Camilla's mouth went dry. Markis stood tall-6'4" of confidence and athletic strength. His brown eyes held a softness that contradicted his usual jock bravado. She was speechless, staring at him like she didn't recognize the boy she'd grown up with. The boy who used to come over to talk to her brother, not her. The boy who'd suddenly become a star.

He was perfect, wasn't he? Star athlete. Top student. Girls falling at his feet. And now... saying this to her?

She cleared her throat, willing herself back to reality. "Well... that's kind of you to say. But I have class-I'm running late."

Before he could respond, she grabbed her dance bag and slipped past him, heart racing.

⸻

Camilla Aurore Macintosh was born into privilege, grace, and expectation. She stood 5'11 barefoot-6 feet in heels-and moved with a dancer's elegance carved from years of discipline.

Her father, Maxwell-Mahon Macintosh, known in the industry as "Max-a-Million," was a self-made billionaire. Born near Port Stephens in Australia, he'd come to the U.S. at 18 to chase a dream-and he'd caught it. From film critic to director to studio mogul, he built an empire from the ground up. By thirty, he was rich beyond imagination-and single.

That changed the moment he met Gracie De Franc's.

Gracie was unlike any woman he'd ever seen. Born in Sousa, Puerto Plata in the Dominican Republic, she moved like mist over water. A professional dancer trained in every style-from ballet to tap-she radiated passion and poise. Max first saw her perform at Broadway's winter showcase, a Christmas gift from his staff. Alone in his box seat, he watched her glide across the stage and knew-he had to have her.

When the curtains closed, he didn't hesitate. He sent his trusted right-hand man, Conrad Watchman Nee, to her dressing room with a dinner invitation. The restaurant? Per Se. The entire venue? Booked, of course-two hours reserved for Max and Gracie.

What he didn't expect was the woman who answered the door.

"Señor?" The red-haired assistant opened it with sharp eyes and sharper words.

"I'd like to speak with Ms. De Franc's," Conrad said, polite as ever.

"Of course you do. So does half the city." She rolled her eyes. "She's changing. Try again later."

Conrad was taken aback, but patient. "And your name, miss?"

"I didn't give it," she replied with a smirk.

Before the door could slam, a voice called out.

"It's fine, Abeille."

Gracie stepped forward, smiling gently. "I'm Gracie. And you are?"

"Conrad Nee, ma'am. Mr. Macintosh asked me to extend a dinner invitation."

Gracie paused, thoughtful. "Tell him I accept. Have the car pick me up at the Plaza Athénée in 45 minutes."

Conrad nodded. "Yes, ma'am. It will be my pleasure."

"And Conrad?" she added, with a soft smile. "Thank you for handling my assistant so... diplomatically."

Conrad laughed lightly. "It's an art, ma'am. She's quite passionate."

"Yes," Gracie said. "She's protective. That's a quality I admire."

That night, dressed in a flowing mint gown and heels that shimmered like pearls, Gracie stepped out of the car and into Max's world. He waited for her outside the restaurant, dressed in a cream tuxedo and mint-green cummerbund. The moment their eyes met, something shifted. It wasn't just attraction-it was fate.

Max, for once, was speechless.

They dined. They laughed. They connected. Within two years, he proposed. She said yes.

They had their son, Max Jr., then three years later, Camilla.

Gracie slowed down her touring, focused on family, and embraced a life of faith. She began volunteering at church. Her love for Jesus grew deeper with time. Max, however, drifted. He couldn't grasp the idea of surrendering his empire to an invisible God.

"You think all of this came from prayer, Gracie?" he asked her once.

"No," she answered softly. "But don't you think we've been blessed beyond reason? That some things... are bigger than us?"

Their faith divided them, quietly, like cracks beneath the surface of a perfect life.

Camilla saw it all.

She heard the arguments. The distance. The pain.

She admired her mother's strength... but feared her own path might mirror it.

And now?

Now she was standing in a dance studio, heart pounding, lips still tingling from a compliment she didn't ask for, from a boy who wasn't supposed to care.

Markis Keys.

The boy who ignored her for years.

The boy with the girlfriend.

The boy she wasn't supposed to think about.

So why couldn't she stop?