Page 93 of Corrupting Camille
But the second she looks up?
I’ll be there.
In her line of sight.
In that bruised part of her that only wakes up when I’m around.
She thinks my silence means surrender.
It doesn't.
It means strategy.
Tonight, I ruin the ending she’s pretending to believe in.
Camille
The gates open like they’re doing it on purpose, dragging out every second, like even they know I don’t want to be here.
The Ashby Estate is ridiculous. All that ivy, the manicured hedges, those glowing lights that look like a magazine spread. It’s stunning. And completely fake.
The kind of beautiful that suffocates you.
Preston sits beside me, knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw locked like he’s posing for a campaign poster. He hasn’t looked at me once. I don’t need him to. I can feel it. He’s gone, mentally rehearsing the lines for the big speech. The big reveal. Senator Caldwell. And me? I’m the accessory.
The future-wife.
Behind us, I catch headlights flicker in the mirror, my parents. Of course. I don’t have to turn around to picture it perfectly: Mom smoothing the neckline of her dress like she’s about to walk a red carpet, Dad adjusting his cufflinks like he’s gotsomething to prove, and Clara… checking herself in a compact mirror for the hundredth time, lips pursed just right.
The car rolls to a stop. And my stomach twists.
I don’t wait for the valet. The second the handle clicks, I’m out, heels clacking against the stone like I mean it. Cold air cuts across my bare shoulders, but I ignore it. A second later, Preston’s hand lands on my back. Warm. Steady… like a leash no one else can see.
Inside is already glowing, low laughter, that hum of money in the air, champagne flutes clinking gently. Music swells in the background like a movie score. Everything here is designed to impress.
I play my part.
“You, alright, darling?” Preston asks, just barely loud enough for me to hear. He’s already smiling. Always smiling. Just in case someone’s watching.
“Yes,” I say. Because I always do. “Perfectly fine.” The words tastes fake in my mouth.
Mrs. Ashby greets us first, all pearls and perfume, her hand warm on mine. “Camille, you look breathtaking.”
“Preston, you must be so proud,” she adds, giving him a smile like she already sees our future, white house, white teeth, white lies.
“She makes it easy,” Preston says. And he means it. Not in a sweet way. In the you’re doing your job way.
I smile again. My throat is tight.
The small talk buzzes around us like bees. Sweet, stinging, and totally impossible to escape. I nod at familiar faces, accept compliments on my dress like I didn’t just pick it to disappear into the room. I sip champagne that bubbles against my tongue like acid.
The terrace doors open with a soft sweep of sound, revealing a scene that’s straight out of some political fantasy: candlelittables under soft glowing lights, flowers spilling from crystal vases, a pianist coaxing soft, elegant melodies from ivory keys. Everything polished, perfect, painfully so.
All for him. All for this.
I glance at Preston, his profile sharp under the golden glow. He looks like a man on the edge of power. Like he can already taste it. His hand tightens on mine.
The message is clear.
