Page 1 of Corrupting Camille
Chapter One
Camille
I can fake anything…smiles, laughter, orgasms…but tonight, the mask is suffocating.
The Langford Hotel smells like money so new it’s still sharp, like ink drying on freshly signed checks and the clean edge of crystal never touched by anything but white-gloved hands. It caters shamelessly to a certain clientele, those who can afford to buy class, but not enough to hide the receipt. Everything here is a carefully crafted illusion. The marble floors buffed until you could slip on your own reflection, chandeliers like frozen waterfalls, staff that drift through ballrooms as seamlessly as the whispers of a scandal.
It’s all so polished it hurts.
My father loves it here. Sinclair Media events are a monthly circus of subtle bragging rights disguised as charity, and The Langford is his newest stage. Tonight’s gala is exactly as scripted as the last, only now the silk wallpaper is more vibrant, themusic louder, and the guest list trimmed just enough to feel exclusive.
I shift slightly in my chair, feeling the slide of silk against bare skin, dark, slippery, and cold like a secret you can’t speak out loud. The dress is meant to suggest but never surrender. A Sinclair woman’s first lesson: show enough skin to remind men of what they could have, but never enough to let them forget their place.
“Intrigue, Camille. Not indulgence.” My mother’s voice echoes in my head, always polished, always calm, always strangling me softly. Sinclair daughters know their role--smile politely, speak softly, and never, ever crave anything beyond the carefully mapped boundaries drawn for them.
The champagne in my glass sparkles beneath the chandeliers, bubbles rising softly to vanish at the surface. I sip because it’s required, feeling the fizz disappear on my tongue, brief, empty, meaningless.
Exactly like me.
Across the ballroom, Clara’s laugh floats gently, a perfect imitation of genuine joy. Nathan Ashby’s hand rests possessively over hers, already treating her like property he’s proud to display. My younger sister wears the practiced grace of a woman who knows exactly how to be owned without ever admitting it.
My mother’s gaze slices across the room, pinning me in place like a butterfly. Her command is silent, but unmistakable.
Smile.
I obey without hesitation, curving my lips into a smile so perfect it hurts my cheeks. It’s smooth, empty, flawless, the exact shade of happiness my parents have trained me to paint on my face since I can remember.
Preston Caldwell slides into my line of sight, and something sharp twists deep inside my chest. Future senator, future husband. My father’s perfectly crafted dream. Handsome, rich,composed and utterly empty. He sends roses like apologies but keeps his distance from their thorns.
“You’ll be well taken care of, Camille,” my father said, his tone dripping with an authority that left no room for dissent. “You’ll be a senator’s wife.”
Like I should be grateful. Like that title could make breathing easier.
Around me, the gala is alive with manufactured laughter, expensive perfume, and the delicate pluck of violin strings, beautiful on the surface, hollow at the core. It suffocates. Every perfectly orchestrated moment, every choreographed smile, every word of conversation squeezes tighter, pressing against my ribs until my lungs ache for freedom.
Without thinking, I rise abruptly. My chair scrapes harshly against the polished marble floor, the sound sharp and discordant, slicing through the quiet hum of genteel chatter.
Heads snap in my direction.
My mother’s glare burns hotter, promising a lecture later about decorum and dignity and the disappointment I’ve become.
I don’t care.
I leave and snatch another full glass from a passing waiter.
The lounge is quieter, darker, a deliberate hush after the shrill brightness of the ballroom. Deep leather chairs, dark velvet drapes, air thick with secrets and expensive regrets. It smells of whiskey and quiet rebellions. For the first time tonight, my spine relaxes, shoulders sinking into a curve that would scandalize my mother.
And I don’t give a fuck.
I drain the champagne in one defiant swallow. This time, the bubbles sting going down, sharp and bitter like truth finally admitted.
One more drink, and maybe I can forget who Camille Sinclair is supposed to be.
I lean back, letting the stem of the empty glass dangle loosely between my fingers, my head tipping against the high back of the chair. The dim lighting crawls at the edges of the room, soft and sleepy, a hush drawn thick across the world. For once, I let myself stop performing. The gala hum is muted now just a distant throb of violin and hollow laughter bleeding through the heavy velvet drapes.
My lashes flutter closed. Just for a second.
And that’s when I feel it.
