Page 99 of Corrupting Camille
Camille
Preston leads us closer to the table, and with every step, the sinking realization hits me harder.
Kane is walking toward the same table.
My stomach knots sharply, dread mixed with a perverse thrill as I reach my seat, discovering the seating card bearing his name. Someone’s idea of a cruel joke, or worse, a very deliberate message.
Seating arrangement from hell.
Kane Rivera, right next to me.
His date, seated directly across, cozied up next to Preston.
Absolutely fucking perfect.
My fingers curl tight around the champagne flute, grip shaky, skin prickling with the searing awareness of Kane beside me.
He shifts casually, thigh brushing mine beneath the table. Heat rushes up my spine, furious and electric, memories sparking to life like flame to gasoline.
I refuse to look at him.
Because if I do, if I so much as glance his way, he’ll see it. How thin my mask has stretched. How my composure is nothing but a trembling breath away from splintering all over this table.
Across from us, Ivy’s voice slides into the air like honey laced with cyanide.
“Preston. It’s been a while.” she purrs, leaning in, the glint of gold on her wrist catching the candlelight. Her fingers trail along his arm, slow and soft, like she’s painting a claim onto his skin. “You look good. Politics suit you.”
He laughs, open, warm, blissfully unaware. The kind of laugh that makes people trust him. Vote for him. Sleep beside him and believe it means something.
Ivy smiles. Effortless. Strategic. And I want to claw her eyes out.
God, I hate her.
But I hate him more.
Because this, all of this, wasn’t an accident. It’s a production. A performance. A carefully choreographed psychological striptease, and Kane Rivera is directing it like the bastard he is.
Every detail was placed like a dagger:
The way Ivy leans in.
The precise inch Preston shifts toward her.
The suffocating space between Kane and me that feels anything but safe.
And then…
He leans in.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His breath brushes the curve of my neck, warm and dark.
“Careful, Camille,” he murmurs, voice like velvet stretched over a knife. “You’re holding that glass like you want to slit someone’s throat with it.”
“I do,” I hiss, jaw locked. “And guess whose name is carved into the stem.”
