Page 47 of Corrupting Camille
My father’s office wasn’t built for comfort. It was built to remind people where they stand.
Sixty floors above Manhattan, glass walls swallow the skyline, turning every visitor into a reflection against a city they’ll never own. The books lining the shelves aren’t read, they’re decoration. Leather-bound props in a performance of legacy and control.
Everything in this room serves a purpose.
To impress.
To intimidate.
To establish hierarchy.
And here, at this table?
Possibility isn’t discussed.
It’s dictated.
And me?
I sit beside them. Spine straight. Hands folded neatly. Voice silent unless summoned. Camille Sinclair, Vice President of Public Relations and Philanthropy. A title meant to sound powerful, but I know what it really is:
Decoration. Distraction. A pretty silhouette at my father’s side.
I’m here to soften the sharp edges of his empire.
To smile for donors.
To wear the dress.
To say yes.
To marry the man they’ve chosen.
But one thing is mine.
The Foundation.
The only part of this legacy I built with my own hands. Real people. Real impact. Scholarships. Community programs. Second chances. And lately?
It’s being strangled.
Budgets disappearing. Approvals delayed. Meetings canceled without explanation. The doors that used to swing open the moment I knocked are now bolted shut behind bureaucratic smirks and vague excuses.
That’s why I’m here.
To fight.
To reclaim what’s mine.
I wait, listening as my father speaks. His voice is calm, confident. So are the men around him, men who’ve never been told no in their lives. They talk numbers. Forecasts. Optics.
Then…
A pause.
A shift in air pressure.
Something changes.
