Page 166 of Corrupting Camille
I’m breathing.
And all I can think, all I can feel, is that he’s done exactly what he promised:
He broke.
He devoured.
He ended.
For me.
***
The evening begins exactly how these dinners always do.
Perfectly.
The restaurant is immaculate, white linen draped elegantly over polished tables, candles flickering softly, shadows dancing across crystal glasses and delicate china, illuminating everything except the truth. Waiters glide silently across the floor, bottles of French reds and chilled whites carefully chosen to impress. Each plate arrives pristine, beautiful, arranged meticulously, as though perfection can erase reality.
My mother’s voice floats gently through the air, soft, practiced, elegant, as she debates Clara’s bridal shower details with casual disdain. “Vera Wang simply isn’t fresh anymore,” she sighs delicately, taking a measured sip from her wine glass. My father nods, his expression cool and detached, eyes carefully scanning the room, cataloging faces and connections he values far more than his own daughters. Politicians, media moguls, old-money royalty.
Beside me, Preston sits composed and confident, perfectly controlled. He smiles on cue, refills my wine glass without missing a beat, his hand resting gently, possessively, on my thigh. His handsome, charming, and utterly hollow eyes glittering with well-masked contempt. He’s so good at pretending. Far better than I am.
But beneath that smile, behind his flawless manners, lurks something dark. Something vicious. The same something that grips my hand too tight on tables, leaving bruises hiddenbeneath diamonds. The same something that shatters phones against marble floors. Preston’s smile widens, effortlessly charming towards everyone at the table, his mask perfectly in place.
But the truth is brutal: eventually, his hands won’t stop at bruising my wrists or destroying my things. He’ll hit me. And when he does, my parents won’t protect me. They’ll twist the story until somehow I’m to blame. They’ll take his side.
Because that’s what they’ve always done. Protecting the image. Choosing power. Shielding monsters in pretty masks.
Across the table, Clara laughs at something Nathan says. The joy in her eyes is warm and genuine, sparkling in a way mine haven’t in years.
And suddenly, I realize, I’m not really here.
I’m standing outside my body, watching this perfectly staged performance unfold like I’m attending my own wake. Beautiful gown. Beautiful flowers. Beautiful corpse.
Pressure builds in my chest, relentless, suffocating, like a hand squeezing tighter every time I swallow another lie.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
And then, before I can stop it, I speak.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
My voice is quiet, a cracked whisper, but it slices through the careful conversation, silencing the table like shattered glass.
My mother pauses mid-word, eyes wide, frozen. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Slowly, my gaze lifts. Everyone is staring, shock and confusion rippling through their carefully composed expressions.
My throat tightens, pulse roaring violently in my ears, but the words come anyway…unstoppable, bloody, raw.
“I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t keep playing this part.”
“Camille.” My father’s voice is quiet thunder, his eyes narrowed, warning me like he has my entire life. “Now isn’t the time.”
“No,” I say, voice stronger, steadier. “It’s exactly the time.”
