Page 17 of Corrupting Camille
I glance down.
The card trembles slightly in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around the note.
But I’m not turning back.
Not tonight.
I move forward, the air thickening around me, pressing close, heavy and silent. At the end of the hall, the door ahead looms, PH-1, tall and imposing, dark polished wood framed in subtle gold, perfectly immaculate, perfectly intimidating. Like everything else in this place, it whispers wealth. Power.
Control.
My heart beats wildly in my throat, my pulse a steady drumbeat echoing through every nerve.
Turn around, Camille, go back downstairs.
The voice of reason, buried deep, tries one final protest.
I should turn around.
I should run straight back to the cage below, slip neatly into the illusion they carved out for me, until I forget what freedom tasted like. Forget that for one brief, breathless second, someone looked at me and saw truth instead of illusion.
But I don’t move. I don’t turn. I can’t.
The keycard is warm now. The note, folded and softened from how fiercely I’ve clung to it.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, my breath shuddering past parted lips. The air here feels charged, pressurized. Scented faintly with sandalwood, leather, and something darker, something male and dangerous.
My fingers hover over the sleek scanner beside the door, hesitation suspended in the space between breath and action.
This is it.
The fracture.
The moment that splits my life in two…before and after.
And suddenly, panic seizes me.
Not fear of him. Not fear of what waits behind that door.
Fear of myself. Fear of discovering what kind of woman willingly steps into a stranger’s darkness just because he looked at her and saw something real.
Something desperate. Something true.
The kind of woman who chooses fire over safety. The kind who craves ruin if ruin means finally breathing free.
I swallow hard, throat tight, chest aching.
I lift the keycard and swipe once.
The lock clicks, heavy, definitive.
The door doesn’t swing open, it waits. Silent. Mocking. Knowing the choice must be mine alone.
My hand trembles faintly as I raise it.
I knock softly, twice, deliberate, the sound like a confession echoing softly off polished wood.
A heartbeat passes.
