Page 103 of Corrupting Camille
My hand twitches under the tablecloth. Still hot from touching her. Still aching to own that pulse again, to shove her thighs open and make her remember who she really belongs to, especially now, sitting here beside the puppet she’s supposed to call her future.
Preston laughs. Fucking oblivious. Ivy feeds him another scripted smile like she’s not just his plus-one but his handler. Meanwhile, Camille sits on the edge of combustion. And I’m the match.
I tip back my glass, slow and unbothered. The burn of wine does nothing to cool the fire crawling under my skin. She’s shaking, and it’s mine. Every ragged inhale. Every inch of her body begging to be contained, ruined, reshaped.
Beautiful.
But not enough.
I want her heart clawing against my grip. I want the panic, the begging, the part of her that still thinks she can survive this. Iwant her to break and know I’ll be the one to decide whether she gets rebuilt.
Across the table, Charles Sinclair stands. His voice slices through the hum of wealth and arrogance like a scalpel. “Kane’s integration into Sinclair Media has been… transformative. Aggressive, maybe, but necessary.”
Camille doesn’t tense…she locks. Like a system shutting down. Her body knows what her mouth won’t say: she’s not in control anymore. She never was.
Tate lifts his glass beside Charles, all smooth cruelty and veiled threat. “Necessary’s one word for it,” he says, looking directly at me. “Let’s just say I owed Kane a favor. He handled something for me… something no amount of money or politics could touch.”
The room stills. Heads turn. Preston’s face shifts, confusion, suspicion, something else, something pathetic.
“You two… know each other?” he asks, voice forced light, trying to play catch-up in a game he was never invited to.
Tate smiles. “Know is such a polite term. Kane and I understand each other. We speak the same language.”
Preston’s hand curls around his wineglass. White-knuckled. Good. Let him sweat.
“Language?” Preston says, voice brittle.
“The language of power,” I murmur, voice low and brutal as I glance at Camille. “And consequences.”
She flinches. A tiny tell. Enough to make my blood sing.
Charles interrupts, clearing his throat like he still believes he commands a room that’s already mine. “To partnerships,” he says.
“To partnerships,” they all echo.
But not her.
Camille’s eyes flick to her father. The betrayal there is almost art. It tightens something in me, something twisted. Because Idon’t want her ruined by Charles. Or by Preston. I want her destroyed by me. On my terms. At my hands.
The moment dissolves. Fake laughter resumes, plastic and pathetic.
I lean in, slow and controlled, my lips a breath from her ear. “Look at him,” I whisper. “Your father. Dressing you up and handing you over like an offering. Watch him smile while you burn.”
She jerks. A tiny, desperate reflex.
And goddamn, I drink it in.
Victory isn’t sweet. It’s addictive. Brutal. Raw. A visceral pleasure slicing through me, deeper because she can’t stop herself. Her body knows truths her mind still pretends aren’t real.
“Shut up,” she whispers, voice a threadbare plea.
Too late, Princesa.
Preston rises, smoothing his jacket, every gesture polished, rehearsed, fucking empty. He taps the glass softly, demanding attention like a child craving applause.
“I’d like to say a few words,” he begins, voice dripping with manufactured sincerity. His gaze sweeps the room, pauses on Camille, but he doesn’t see her. Doesn’t notice the rigid spine, the broken rhythm of her breathing, the sheer panic shimmering just beneath that flawless, expensive facade.
But I do.
