Page 158 of Corrupting Camille
“Three days, Camille.” Her voice is ice wrapped in silk, brittle and slicing. “Not a word. Not a call. Nothing. Do you have any idea the position you’ve put us in?”
My father remains seated, fingers steepled, cold as a machine running a profit-and-loss analysis. His voice cuts straight to the point, emotionless. “The wedding must proceed, Camille. Preston’s candidacy has raised the stakes significantly. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement for both families, especially ours.”
Beneficial. Lucrative. Always profit first.
“I was with Lena,” I repeat, a well-rehearsed script falling effortlessly from my lips. “Everything happening, the engagement, Preston’s campaign, Kane Rivera breathing down my neck, I was overwhelmed. I needed space. I needed air.”
The lie slides down my throat, smooth and easy, because I’ve been trained by masters.
Mother’s shoulders relax slightly, accepting my crafted truth, if reluctantly. Father, however, isn’t satisfied yet. His eyes sharpen dangerously.
“And Kane?” he asks bluntly. “Your mother has informed me about your interactions with Rivera. That man is toxic. Dangerous. I won’t have him compromising everything we’ve worked for.”
Something deep inside me snaps, frustration cracking through the mask I’ve worn for years.
“Kind of hard to stay away,” I bite back, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, “when you’ve handed him authority over everything I have. Rivera Holdings owns me because you let them.”
Silence thickens between us, my words hanging in the air like a challenge.
My father rises slowly, his movements precise and threatening. “Careful, Camille. You’re treading dangerously close to ingratitude. Preston and his family are critical to the future of Sinclair Media…your future. Whatever misguided fascination you have with Rivera ends now.”
He waits, expecting submission, waiting for me to fold. I hold his gaze, steel clashing against steel.
“I told you,” I repeat, calm but firm, “I was with Lena.”
He studies me, weighing the sincerity behind my perfectly constructed façade. Eventually, satisfied for now, he nods dismissively.
“Clean yourself up,” he orders. “There will be photographs tomorrow at brunch with Preston’s parents. Do not disappoint me again.”
The dismissal stings sharply, but I straighten my spine, holding his gaze until he looks away first.
I turn without another word, sneakers squeaking defiantly on marble, each step a quiet rebellion they can’t yet control.
***
My bedroom feels hollow now. It’s never felt so fucking fake, like stepping into a perfectly curated Instagram post. Clean lines, neutral colors, tasteful pieces of expensive art meant to disguise the emptiness beneath. A lie, polished to perfection by parents who think wealth and status can buy happiness, obedience, silence.
I kick Lena’s sneakers off with more force than necessary, watching them skid across the carpet, smearing dirt on pristine white. A mess they’ll hate. A little rebellion they deserve.
Twenty-four, and still a puppet dancing on strings I’m still too cowardly to cut.
Stripping quickly, I climb into the shower and crank the water to scalding, desperate to burn away the memories of my parents’ eyes filled with judgment, their quiet threats and manipulations. But the heat only sharpens my awareness of Kane’s marks on me, vivid bruises, red and purple bites stamped along my throat, my chest, possessive imprints I want to press deeper into my skin.
His ownership. His proof.
When I step out, steam clouds the mirror, and I swipe it clean. My reflection mocks me, exhausted eyes rimmed red, dark circles speaking truths I refuse to say out loud. The bruises pulse defiantly against my skin, whispering reminders of him, of what we did, of how I willingly begged for his cruelty, his touch, his darkness.
Then, suddenly, the realization hits me, brutal and relentless: I don’t smell like him anymore.
The emptiness punches through my chest, leaving me breathless, panic twisting sharply through my veins. I need him, his scent, his presence, the fucking taste of his skin on my tongue.
I bolt from the bathroom naked, racing across the room, nearly stumbling over myself, heart slamming violently against my ribs as I rip open Lena’s tote. My breath comes in sharp, desperate gasps until my fingers finally close around Kane’s black T-shirt, worn and soft and saturated in his scent, dark, smoky, dangerously comforting.
I yank it over my head, letting it swallow me whole, sleeves falling past my elbows, the hem brushing my thighs. My chest heaves, relief pouring through me as his scent wraps around my lungs like a possessive grip. I tug his sweatpants up my hips,drowning in the enormous fabric, desperate to bury myself in any piece of him I took.
Collapsing onto the bed, I clutch at his clothes, inhaling deep, ragged breaths, craving the scent that lingers there, craving him. My eyes squeeze shut, but it’s useless. Kane invades every thought, every memory, every broken piece of my mind.
His voice floods back, rough and possessive, etched deep into my soul:
