Page 159 of Corrupting Camille
“You look fucking beautiful wearing me, Camille…so much better than diamonds.”
My chest clenches sharply, pain mingling brutally with longing as his words rip through me, unrelenting, vivid:
“I want your ugly. I want the broken parts. Your scars, the secrets you keep, I want your nightmares…I want to stand centered in your ugly and watch you realize I’m never leaving.”
I shift restlessly, grabbing a pillow to smother my face, trying desperately to silence him. But he’s everywhere, relentless, his words burning hot in my veins:
“I want under your skin, Camille. I want to live there. In every breath, every ache, every goddamn decision you make. You don’t walk away from this. Not from me.”
And then the worst, the memory that slices deep, a knife dragged slowly over exposed nerves:
“…because now I see you exactly how you are, pathetic, spineless, worthless. Empty. And you’re right… I’m beneath you, Camille, but not for the reason you think… I’d never lower myself to settle for a coward…”
A sob rips from my chest, raw and anguished. Because he’s right. Because I pushed him away, lied to his face, denied everything I felt. Too scared, too fucking weak to own the truth.
I’m in love with him.
Not tender, not sweet, nothing normal or safe about it. A love that’s jagged and ruthless, carved into my bones with razor blades, bleeding out through every regretful breath I take.
My heart breaks wide open in my chest, splintering under the weight of everything I destroyed, everything I threw away. And as tears soak into his clothes, my body shaking violently with grief and longing, I finally accept it:
I fucked up.
I hurt him.
And I might’ve just ruined the only real thing I’ve ever had.
***
The boutique smells like lavender and designer perfume, soft, sophisticated, expensive. Music murmurs quietly beneath the delicate chatter, creating a gentle hum of meaningless background noise. Chandeliers hang above us, throwing glittering prisms across ivory silk, pearl chiffon, and walls the exact color of quiet perfection.
My mother sits silently in the corner, legs crossed with effortless grace, her eyes assessing every detail like she’s already tallying points. Always judging, always appraising.
Clara stands on a raised platform in front of me, enveloped in a gown of satin and lace, the fabric pooling elegantly around her feet. Ivory perfection hugs her curves, luminous and soft, reflecting every ounce of hope in her eyes.
Everything I’m not.
She turns toward me slowly, nerves and excitement mingling in her gaze. “What do you think?” she asks softly.
“Stunning,” I breathe, my voice gentle and honest, my fingers smoothing the rich fabric carefully. “It’s perfect.”
She catches my eyes in the mirror, and her expression shifts slightly. A tender furrow forms between her brows, concern shadowing her happiness. “You okay, Cam?”
My hands pause, a brief hesitation betraying me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just seem…” She searches for the right word. “Off. Like you’re here, but your mind’s somewhere else.”
Two blocks away. At the Langford. With Kane.
I force a smile, meeting her reflection again. “Just busy. You know…Foundation stuff, Preston’s campaign.”
Her eyes soften knowingly, gentle disbelief written plainly across her delicate face. “Is that really all?”
My throat tightens. “Clara…”
She reaches down, gently touching my shoulder, urging me to stand. I rise slowly, reluctantly, casting a quick glance toward our mother, whose attention has shifted briefly toward her phone, oblivious for now.
“Can we talk privately?” Clara whispers, tilting her head toward the small room behind us. “Just a minute.”
