Page 13 of Corrupting Camille
My smirk widens slowly, dangerously. “See you soon.”
She hesitates, breath trapped between lips I fully intend to claim, before finally turning sharply, shoulders set in furious defiance. But I catch the hesitation in her step, the way she slows just slightly, tilting her head to hear if I’ll call her back. The hitch of her breath as she refuses to glance over her shoulder.
Camille already knows she’s mine, and by morning, she’ll understand exactly how thoroughly I intend to dismantle her world.
Chapter Two
Camille
The second Preston’s hand closes around mine the show begins again. The fake smiles. The flawless posture. The perfect fucking lie. I let him guide me back inside, my spine ramrod straight, head high. The gala pulses around us, champagne laughter, violins humming softly, flashes of expensive smiles captured by cameras like insects to velvet.
The Sinclair family in their natural habitat.
I spot my mother first.
Celeste St. James. Queen of everything. Hair sleek, skin glowing, pearls dripping effortlessly around a neck that’s never bowed to anyone. She’s laughing at something Nathan Ashby whispers. Her profile so perfectly sculpted it looks like an ad campaign. She wields grace like a blade, cutting deep and clean without ever breaking a sweat.
Old Creole blood, born in mansions built by ancestors who survived history rather than bent to it. Black Southernaristocracy that owns rooms they were once forbidden to enter. She wears legacy like armor, defiance in her bones.
Next to her stands my father, Charles Sinclair. White, Ivy-League, cold as marble columns, calm as inherited wealth. Their marriage was a corporate merger, Black excellence and old white money, strategically woven together until it looked like harmony.
Clara stands beside them, exactly where she’s supposed to be, comfortably settled into the life mapped out for her. She’s perfectly content in her careful engagement, her soft laughter genuine, her posture relaxed as she lightly touches Nathan’s arm. She fits into this world effortlessly, a Sinclair who never questions her place.
Then she sees me.
Her smile widens instantly, polished but fragile, a practiced warmth masking the faint anxiety beneath. It’s genuine in its own way, Clara loves me fiercely, even if we don’t always understand each other, but it’s tempered by quiet caution, a gentle plea for me to continue to fit into the mold. Nathan looks up, his gaze cool, sharp, instantly taking in my face, then Preston’s possessive hand gripping my waist. His stare slides lower, slower, as if he can guess exactly how far I’ve stepped outside the lines tonight.
“Darling,” my mother’s voice cuts smoothly through the tension, each syllable honeyed poison. “Where exactly did you run off to?”
“Needed some air,” I say lightly. Effortlessly. Empty.
She lifts an eyebrow slightly. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity mixed with suspicion. “Air. That explains your flushed cheeks, I suppose.”
Preston doesn’t even glance at me, his voice mild, but deliberately pointed. “She was talking to someone. In the lounge.”
His words drop quietly, deliberately.
My father turns toward me, his gaze snapping from bored to razor-sharp in an instant. “Who?”
Not protective. Assessing risk. Calculating damage.
“I don’t know,” I answer flatly. “He didn’t offer his name.”
My mother’s smile stiffens like porcelain. “Camille. You know how important appearances are. You can’t simply—”
“I wasn’t seen,” I say, voice sharper now. “And I don’t recall needing permission to speak to people!”
Charles exhales through his nose, clearly irritated. “This is not the time to test us.”
Test us.
As if I’m a product they’re trying to market.
As if my body, my choices, my future is all some campaign pitch I keep fucking up by breathing.
“I’m not testing you,” I say. “I’m just existing.”
“Well, try to exist more quietly,” Celeste hisses, her smile never budging. “And for God’s sake, stop drawing attention to yourself especially with the campaign coming. And Preston’s name attached to yours—”
