Page 124 of Corrupting Camille
But I don’t.
The back door opens.
Joaquin steps out, face unreadable, suit sharp. Silent storm in a tailored package.
“Ms. Sinclair,” he says, calm and clean, like he’s not ferrying me straight into hell. But his eyes…they see everything.
I pause. Just for a second. Long enough to feel the weight of the choice.
Long enough to know I’m about to do something I won’t come back from.
One second. Two. And then?
I do the only thing I ever seem to know how to do when it comes to Kane Rivera.
I surrender.
I slide into the car. The leather is cool against my thighs. The door shuts behind me with a soft click.
But it sounds like a lock sliding into place.
Like a verdict.
Joaquin doesn’t speak as we pull away from the curb. Doesn’t glance in the mirror. Doesn’t ask questions.
We weave through the city., slow, quiet, inevitable.
By the time we hit the underground garage, my hands are clenched in my lap and my heart is punching its way through my chest.
We coast past cars worth more than my foundation’s annual budget. Past steel and glass and silence.
He stops in front of the private elevator.
The one that only leads to one place.
To him.
I stare at the soft orange glow of the call button. The numbers above the doors. The faint reflection of myself, flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes that look far too gone for this to still be a decision.
Joaquin says nothing. He doesn’t tell me to get out. He doesn’t ask if I need a moment.
Because he knows.
He knows.
That if I really wanted to stop this, I wouldn’t be here.
I exhale slowly,. My legs are jelly, but somehow, I force myself forward. Step after step.
Each footfall echoes in my ears, sounding dangerously like surrender.
I came here to end this. I came here to shove his bullshit back in his face. I came here because Kane Rivera needs to know he can’t fucking own me.
Yet as I stand in front of the elevator doors, watching them slide open, all my righteous anger twists into something hotter, darker, something I refuse to name.
I step inside.
The elevator hums beneath my feet, rising steadily while my stomach does flips. My reflection glares back at me, flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glittering with defiance I can barely hold onto.
