Page 119 of Corrupting Camille
“Pretend to be happy,” I say, each word forcing its way past trembling lips. “Pretend not to feel…”
“Feelings,” Preston interrupts coolly, “are luxuries we can’t afford.” His eyes bore into mine, calculating, ruthless. “You’ve always known that. Happiness is a bonus, Camille. Not a requirement.”
The restaurant around us buzzes softly, oblivious to the silent war playing out at our table. Preston leans forward again, voice dropping dangerously low. “I chose you because you’re strong enough to understand what’s required. Do not disappoint me now.”
My chest heaves painfully. “What if I already have?”
He studies me closely, cold fury hidden beneath practiced composure. “Then you’d better learn quickly how to fix it. Because our families don’t tolerate failure. Neither do I.”
His words land like blows, deliberate and bruising. My lungs squeeze tight, a suffocating weight pressing down as reality sinks deeper into my bones.
“Is that a threat?” I manage, voice thin.
“No,” Preston says, expression softening into something disturbingly gentle. “It’s simply the truth, Camille. The truth you asked for.”
His eyes linger on me a second longer, unreadable but heavy with quiet warning. Then he calmly picks up his fork, returning to his meal as though nothing at all has happened. As though he hasn’t just stripped every last illusion away from our future.
I sit there, shattered, understanding finally and fully that this perfect façade we’ve built isn’t merely fragile.
It’s already broken.
***
I don’t remember leaving the restaurant.
I don’t remember the drive home, the blurred streetlights flashing past, or stepping out onto the pavement. Everything after Preston’s quiet, cutting truths fade into a foggy nothingness, the numbness spreading deeper, blanketing me like a heavy, suffocating weight.
The next clear moment comes when I’m standing beneath the shower, the scalding water beating relentlessly down my back. I don’t feel it. Or maybe I do, but not enough, not nearly enough. It should hurt more. It should leave marks, blister my skin, make me feel something, anything other than the empty hollowness expanding inside my chest.
When I finally step out, my skin is flushed raw, angry pink streaks tracing along my ribs. But it’s nothing compared to the marks Preston’s words left beneath the surface, invisible but permanent.
Numbly, I dress, barely registering the soft lace of the red bralette as it slides over my damp skin, the delicate shorts following suit. A cruel joke, this pretty lingerie, pretending there’s something romantic left in the wreckage of tonight.
There isn’t.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring down at my manicured feet as they hover just above the hardwood. They’re painted a shade of nude so flawless, so neutral, it hurts. Exactly like Preston wants me, perfect, polished, unobtrusive. A quiet, beautiful ghost of a wife.
My eyes blur, throat tightening painfully. I touch my wrist gently, wincing as my fingertips brush the tender skin where he squeezed too hard. Already, faint bruises are forming, shadows rising to the surface, a promise of what he’s capable of when pushed too far.
The conversation replays in my head is uninvited, relentless. His voice, cold and smooth as steel, casually brutal as heoutlined exactly what I am—nothing but a trophy. Pretty, delicate, breakable.
Disposable.
My stomach clenches painfully. Is this what my life is now? Smiles and silences, bruises hidden beneath diamond bracelets and silk sleeves? Will he ever cross that invisible line? Will there come a day when bruises aren’t enough, when my subtle rebellions finally snap something deeper inside him?
I swallow hard, unable to silence the whispered dread inside my mind.
And inevitably, like gravity pulling me back into orbit, my thoughts slip quietly to Kane.
The man who devoured me like he was fucking starving.
The man who made me beg…shamelessly, desperately…for things I never thought I’d crave.
The man who infiltrated every corner of my life as if it belonged to him, claiming spaces I never meant to surrender.
The man who overheard my darkest secret, forced me to look him in the eyes and confirm every ugly, twisted detail.
Douglas.
