Page 41 of Corrupting Camille
An invitation, formal, polite, carefully neutral.Lunch at the Sinclair estate. A gesture.
He knows who I am. He knows why I want in.
But he doesn’t know how far I’ll go.
I spend the next twelve hours preparing. Not just the surface-level due diligence. I study his political donors. His real offshore accounts. His mistress in Milan. The silent partners that keep his media empire afloat. The enemies he’s made that haven’t come for him, yet.
Every piece is a pawn on a board. Every piece I’m going to move.
Day Seven.
Camille posts a photo from the Foundation. She’s in jeans and a t-shirt, standing barefoot inside a half-painted community shelter in Brooklyn, laughing with a kid who has paint on his cheeks.
She looks happy.
Unfiltered.
Human.
She has no idea her entire world is being surrounded.
That I’m about to sit across from her father and smile like the devil, offering him something he won’t be able to refuse, security, expansion, capital.
And behind that offer?
A hand already wrapped around his daughter’s throat.
Not physically.Not yet.
But metaphorically?
She’s mine.
And I’m going to drag her into my world one move at a time. Not with chains. But with power. With strategy. With ruthless precision.
She’ll never see the checkmate coming.
Not until she’s already in it. Already undone. Already back in my bed, whispering “more” all over again.
And this time?
There will be no walking away.
***
Day Eight.The Sinclair estate stands before me in white stone, sprawling quietly at the edge of the Upper East Side, every line and curve as deliberate and calculated as the family that built it. A perfect monument to carefully curated power. Old money oozing charm and arrogance in equal measure, the kind of quiet elegance that’s been polished over decades of careful deceit.
Exactly like Camille herself.
Except Camille’s cracks are real.
Her desperation is tangible.
Her unraveling is exquisite.
Charles Sinclair meets me in the grand foyer, impeccable in a tailored navy suit that costs more than most men earn in a year. His handshake is firm, poised, carrying the subtle message that he’s fully aware of who and what I am, and he doesn’t trust it. His mouth curves in a practiced smile, a politician’s smile, perfected through years of rehearsed cordiality and calculated dominance.
“Kane,” he says, voice smooth as old scotch, his eyes watchful. “Pleasure to finally sit down with you.”
