Page 217 of Corrupting Camille
But then again, the last time I saw her, the last time we really talked—I’d stumbled to her door like some wounded animal, sobbing, pride ripped to shreds. Hours after I’d carved Kane apart with my words, after I looked him dead in the eye and told him he was beneath me, shattering something between us that neither of us knew how to fix. Lena, in perfect Lena fashion, had pulled me inside without question, wiped my tears, and rolled me a joint potent enough to numb every ounce of guilt clawing at my chest. She’d brushed back my hair, straightened my spine, and told me with a smirk that apologies were always best delivered naked.
God, I miss her.
My forever ride-or-die—and somehow I’d let weeks bleed by without a single call or text. But everything had spiraled out of control too fast: Preston and our broken engagement, finally snapping beneath the weight of my parents' suffocating expectations, the buried trauma they’d forced me to swallow and hide for years. And then running—recklessly, desperately—straight into Kane’s arms, letting him whisk me away to Miami.
Too much. Too fast. I'd barely managed to catch my breath. And now here I am, hiding out in paradise with the very man I’d always known could destroy me completely. But he'd been embedded in my bloodstream from that very first night we fucked, and there was no tearing him out now.
I can already hear Lena’s delighted shriek when I admit that yes, I took her advice, stripped naked, and got down on my knees to grovel for Kane Rivera’s forgiveness.
She's never going to let me live it down.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I finally force my fingers to move, dialing her number before I can chicken out. Each ring makes my pulse quicken, my heart hammering stupidly hard against my rib cage. I grip the phone tighter.
Three rings, four—
Then Lena’s sleepy, irritated voice cuts through, dripping with venom. “If you’re calling about my car’s extended warranty, respectfully, fuck all the way off.”
My throat immediately closes up, tears stinging behind my eyes, laughter burning at the back of my throat. “Lena.”
Dead silence. A beat passes, then another.
“Bitch.”
I choke on a laugh, tears spilling over onto my cheeks. “Hey.”
“Hey?” she snaps, voice instantly sharp, alert, lethal. “You vanish without a single text or DM slide or even a smoke signal, and now you hit me with a casual ‘hey’? Camille Sinclair, are you fucking serious? I’ve listened to every murder podcast on Spotify waiting for your damn name. Tell me right now you’re not chained in some psycho’s basement.”
I smile despite myself, wiping my eyes roughly. “I’m not chained in anyone’s basement.”
“Good. You’re too hot to become a tragic Netflix documentary.” She lets out an exaggerated breath, as if she'd genuinely been holding it all these weeks. “Now tell me exactly where the fuck you’ve been. The Preston disaster has been feeding those Upper East Side gossip vultures for weeks. His smug face is plastered on every news channel claiming he’s the victim.”
I laugh bitterly, wiping away fresh tears. “Not surprised."
“Exactly. Now spill. Where the fuck have you—wait, Cami… babe… please, please tell me you went full naked slut mode and begged your billionaire cartel daddy to take you back."
My cheeks flush hot, a fierce burn flooding through my chest. Lena always has a way of cutting straight to the bone, zeroing in on the sordid truth buried beneath my carefully crafted lies. I stay silent for a moment and then—“Apologies are best delivered naked.”
“Oh my God, Camille!” Her voice pitches into a delighted squeal, vibrating with pure, shameless excitement. “You absolute filthy minx! I’m so proud. Please tell me there was lingerie involved. Or was it full-on birthday suit, on your knees, mascara running?”
I groan softly, burying my heated face deeper into the pillow. “Lena, I hate you."
“No, bitch, you adore me. Now give me the dirty details.”
I swallow hard, heart fluttering, mind flooding with vivid memories: Kane’s gaze, dark and merciless, drinking in my trembling body; the way my knees had hit the cold marble floor, begging spilling desperately from my lips; his harsh breath against my skin, possessive hands pulling me close enough to bruise. I let my fingers trail across the permanent scar he'd left on my neck, when his teeth had cut through skin, drawing blood, marking, exquisite punishment and claim.
“It was…exactly as humiliating as you’d imagine,” I mumble finally, squeezing my eyes shut as my voice drops to a whisper. “But it was absolutely perfect and it worked beautifully."
Lena hums appreciatively, a low, smug purr through the line. “Of course it worked. Men like Kane Rivera crave submission more than oxygen. And you, my little control freak, were clearly born to kneel.”
“Fuck you.” A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. Only Lena could twist my shame into something fierce, something thrilling.
“Later, baby, I’m still too pissed at you for ghosting me. Besides, my little princess on her knees begging her psycho billionaire for forgiveness is the exact brand of chaos my soul needed. Consider yourself forgiven.”
“Thank God,” I whisper, relief and warmth blossoming behind my ribs. “I miss you, Lena.”
“Of course you do.” Her tone softens, teasing giving way to genuine affection. “So, tell me, how is daddy Kane treating you?"
I hesitate, eyes drifting toward the massive windows overlooking the shimmering turquoise ocean, to Kane’s lingering scent woven through the sheets wrapped around me. “Like I’m made of glass,” I murmur, voice catching slightly, vulnerability bleeding through despite my best efforts.
