Page 50 of Corrupting Camille
Yet here I am…infiltrating Sinclair Media, sitting across from her father, becoming the “powerful new force” in their empire’s future.
When her father says my name, proclaims me a partner, Camille flinches.
Just once.
Small, delicate, almost imperceptible.
But I catch it.
And it’s delicious.
She’s trying not to break. Fighting so hard, knuckles white beneath the table, composure strained to the point of pain. But I’m patient. I’ll savor every moment. I’ll let her stew in this tension, watch her squirm as the reality sinks in.
She’ll sit across from me every day, wearing that perfectly poised mask. Pretending. Desperate. Beautifully trapped.
I hear the meeting drone on around us, meaningless corporate jargon about “realignments” and “synergies” just sanitized words for the control slipping from her grasp.
Then someone mentions the Foundation, and her posture shifts. She straightens just a fraction, breath deepening, finally forcing herself to speak.
Her voice is smooth, carefully measured, but I can hear the tension beneath layers of practiced diplomacy.
“If I may,” she says, fixing her eyes on her father with controlled intensity, pointedly ignoring me, “the proposed cuts to the Foundation’s third-quarter allocations are deeply disproportionate. We’re the only branch seeing a reduction this severe, despite exceeding both outreach and retention goals in Q2.”
I watch her mouth move, precise and graceful, and think of how beautifully it stretched around my cock. How elegantly those lips begged for mercy. How sweetly they trembled around broken pleas she never thought she’d whisper.
She’s fighting for control, for dignity.
But the real battle ended two weeks ago in my bed.
And no matter how carefully she tries to hide behind her polished words and perfect manners…she’ll always be mine.
Camille
The moment the words leave my lips, I know I’m walking straight into a trap.
I spent days, no, weeks, poring over numbers, preparing reports, securing bulletproof metrics. I made sure my voice wouldn’t shake, that my hands would stay steady, that every fucking word out of my mouth was immaculate and undeniable.
“The current proposal is reckless,” I say, meeting each gaze around the table carefully, deliberately. “If implemented, criticalprograms will lose funding mid-cycle. Communities that need us most will be left vulnerable, and for what? Optics?”
For a second, one precious, fleeting second, I believe I have ground beneath my feet.
Then he moves.
Barely.Just a slight shift forward in his chair, leaning into the polished wood table, slow and quiet and completely devastating.
I feel it everywhere. The weight of his attention. The brutal, invisible grip tightening around my throat.
“Miss Sinclair.”
His voice cuts through me. Quiet. Lethal. Icy calm, slicing straight into my chest. My name on his tongue feels dangerous. Unbearably intimate.
I stop mid-sentence. My gaze snaps to his before I can stop myself, fuck, I regret it instantly. I wish I could turn away, wish I could erase him from this moment, from every moment.
But he doesn’t even look at me.
He speaks to the board, voice clinical, detached, like he’s never had my body trembling beneath him.
“I’ve reviewed the Foundation’s financials extensively over the past few weeks.” He pauses and I feel that subtle pause rip straight through my carefully practiced facade. “The situation isn’t quite as Miss Sinclair portrays.”
