Page 71 of Corrupting Camille
I’m not a board seat.
And I am not a woman who gets silenced by a man just because he got inside me.
Even if a part of me still burns when I think about the way he touched me. Even if I wake up some nights with my hand between my thighs, chasing something I can’t name.
I shut that part down.
Hard.
This proposal? This is my war cry. So when the calendar invite comes through, I don’t flinch.
Subject: Sinclair Foundation – Strategic Follow-Up Time: Thursday, 12:00 p.m. Location: Board Room 16B
Sent by his assistant. Not him.
Of course.
I accept. Not because I want to see him. Not because I’m ready.
Because I have to.
Because if I don’t stand my ground now, he’ll bulldoze everything I’ve built and call it “efficiency.”
The next morning, another update hits my inbox:
Location Change: Le Jardin, 4:30 p.m. – Private Room Dress code enforced. Confidential lunch.
I roll my eyes so hard my vision blurs.
Of course! Kane wants a meeting at Le Jardin. New York’s most exclusive five-table, don’t-even-think-about-walking-in-without-a-reservation spot. The kind of place where senators sip bourbon and CEOs ink backroom deals.
It’s a power play disguised as a lunch reservation.
Classic Kane Rivera.
I don’t RSVP.
I don’t need to.
He’ll expect me to show.
And I would have.
Until the call comes in. My phone rang late morning and Marcy, the director of Haven House, sounded like she’d been crying.
“There was a pipe burst,” she said. “The ceiling’s falling down. Camille, we have nowhere else to put them…”
I didn’t let her finish. I got dressed in a daze, grabbed my coat, and told my driver to hurry.
Now I’m here, standing in front of the old brick townhouse that’s held together by love and sheer desperation. Rain pours relentlessly from the sky, soaking my clothes, making the thin silk blouse cling to my skin, chilling me straight to the bone.
I push through the blue door without knocking. This place has always been mine, in a way. A quiet refuge that I helped build, one that mirrors the cracks I keep hidden behind a perfect mask. I used to visit constantly, every fundraiser, every holiday, every quiet afternoon when the loneliness of my own life felt suffocating.
I haven’t been here in almost a year.
Inside, the familiar scent of disinfectant mixed with baking cookies and heartbreak wraps around me, comforting and painful all at once. Marcy is waiting, her face tight with worry, relief blooming in her eyes the moment she sees me.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” she says softly.
