Page 104 of Corrupting Camille
I see every crack.
“Tonight isn’t merely about gathering allies,” Preston continues, voice too calm, too slick. “It’s about opportunity. Tradition merging seamlessly with progress. My father once told me leadership isn’t inherited. It’s earned through courage, conviction, and sacrifice.”
The room murmurs politely, a hollow buzz of approval he feeds off like oxygen. He lifts his chin, the picture of false modesty.
“Leadership is a calling,” he says, voice swelling with counterfeit passion. “A responsibility. And tonight, I answer it proudly.”
He pauses, his moment choreographed, pathetic in its predictability. “I’m honored to announce that I’m officially running for the United States Senate.”
The applause surges, polite and meaningless, a performance. Camille doesn’t move beside me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t fucking breathe.
Because she knows what’s next.
We both do.
Preston turns slowly toward her, his smile softening to practiced tenderness, an actor delivering his line flawlessly. He dips his hand into his pocket, pulling out the velvet box like a trophy, oblivious to the noose he’s tightening around her throat.
“Camille.” His voice drops, earnest, nauseatingly sincere. He sinks gracefully to one knee. “My future means nothing without you. Stand beside me. Be my strength, my partner…my wife.”
Her body freezes, trapped by a decision she isn’t making. Shallow breaths flutter in her chest. Her gaze darts to mine, frantic, pleading silently, desperately.
But I offer no escape.
“Will you marry me?” Preston asks, voice unwavering, confident.
Camille hesitates, heartbeat after fragile heartbeat passing until it feels like the room itself is holding its breath. She stares at him, then at the ring, trapped, cornered.
Camille
Preston’s down on one knee.
The room blurs around me, faces, sounds, colors, all smearing into a dizzying whirlpool of expectation and suffocating perfection.
My mother leans forward, eyes glittering hungrily, practically salivating at the perfect moment unfolding in front of her. She’s waited years for this, for the glittering diamond, the perfect pictures, the social media spectacle. For her daughter to become everything she groomed me to be.
Charles Sinclair’s smile stretches wide, eyes gleaming with pride and ambition. I can practically feel him calculating votes, connections, the precise weight of what this engagement could mean for Sinclair Media.
Clara’s smile is genuine, open, honest, everything mine is not. She claps her hands softly, eyes bright with happiness that twists inside me like a knife. My sister deserves sincerity. Happiness. Something real. Something more than this hollow spectacle.
And me?
I can’t breathe.
Preston’s voice reaches me through the haze. Words I’ve rehearsed in nightmares and daydreams alike.
“Camille,” he says, voice shaking slightly, nerves, sincerity, or perhaps just the audience we’ve collected tonight. “Will you marry me?”
He holds the ring box open, a diamond big enough to be vulgar, catching every light in the room. Glittering. Perfect.
My tongue feels thick, useless. The air around me turns heavy, pressing against my chest until my lungs burn, until I’m silently screaming beneath a flawless, frozen mask.
And then, against every instinct I have, against the silent scream clawing at the back of my throat, my eyes betray me. They flick to the space beside me landing exactly where they should never have gone.
Onhim.
Kane’s stare is dark, unreadable, utterly calm in a way that chills me to the bone. He’s leaning back, wine glass casually dangling between his fingers. His lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk.
He knows.
