Page 48 of Corrupting Camille
My father’s voice falters, barely, but I catch it. A tightness around the mouth. A flicker of annoyance.
A ripple tears through the room.
Not a sound. Not a word.
But I feel it.
Like something long dead just clawed itself from the grave.
I turn my head….and all the oxygen leaves my body in a single, violent rush.
Because he walks in.
Him.
The man whose fingerprints still linger beneath my skin. Whose rough voice still haunts my sleep. The man whose faceI spent the last two weeks desperately trying to erase from memory and failing miserably.
He was never supposed to come back.
A mistake. A reckless, impulsive night I thought I could bury beneath silk sheets and silence. A stranger whose name I deliberately never asked because names make things real, and he was a fantasy. A filthy, consuming secret, meant to vanish with the morning sun.
But now here he is, stepping through the boardroom doors like he’s walking onto a battlefield he’s already conquered.
The air thickens instantly. Every breath turns jagged, catching painfully in my chest. The solid mahogany table beneath my palms suddenly feels fragile, inadequate. The walls of glass surrounding us leave me exposed, vulnerable, like a trapped butterfly pinned beneath relentless scrutiny.
And he hasn’t even looked at me yet.
The tension crackles around him, invisible threads of dominance tightening as he strides into the room, calm, composed, utterly ruthless. The men seated around the table, seasoned businessmen, powerful players in tailored suits fall quiet, sensing an intruder who doesn’t belong yet somehow owns every inch of the space he occupies.
Even my father, always composed, utterly unshakeable, rises slowly to his feet. The brief hesitation in his usually confident stance speaks louder than any words can.
“Mr. Rivera,” my father says, extending his hand with practiced courtesy. “Welcome to Sinclair Media.”
Rivera.
The name sinks between my ribs, deep and unapologetic, marking territory it has no right to claim. A name I’d never known belonging the man whose face and touch I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to erase from my body, from my head, from every breath I pull in.
His mouth tips into something small, sharp, arrogant. A quiet taunt that drips danger onto my father’s polished floors. He clasps my father’s hand with an authority that makes the gesture feel more like conquest than greeting.
And then his eyes lift, straight past my father, right to me.
“Just Kane,” he says softly.
The rough edge of his voice slides straight down my spine, hooking itself into dark corners I’ve tried so hard to bury. He speaks his name like he’s handing me something heavy, something that belongs to me, something I’ll never be able to set down again.
Kane.
It echoes inside me like a heartbeat turned fierce and feral, a promise whispered at the back of my neck, dangerous and inevitable.
He’s watching me like he remembers everything.
He takes his time claiming his seat directly across from me. Each movement deliberate, leisurely, radiating quiet arrogance. He’s not here to negotiate. Not here to invest. He’s here to watch me squirm, to reclaim every piece of control I foolishly thought I had when I walked away from him.
His suit is dark, tailored precisely over broad shoulders and powerful muscle. Not flashy, not obvious. A subtle dominance, demanding attention without begging for it. Two buttons open at his throat reveal a hint of ink etched onto golden-brown skin a dark promise hidden beneath crisp white cuffs. Tattoos that speak of secrets I’ve tasted but never fully learned. A past written in blood and violence and mystery I’m terrified to explore yet desperate to unravel.
He reclines slightly in the chair, his gaze never leaving mine. The room shrinks to nothing but the small space between us. The voices around the table fade to distant echoes, meaningless, insignificant. The only sound I hear clearly is the rush of bloodthrough my veins, the pounding of my heart that he seems to feel, judging by the faint tilt of his lips.
His eyes, dark, dangerous, endlessly deep, hold mine captive, stripping away the carefully crafted mask I’ve worn for years. He sees beneath it effortlessly. He sees me.
