Page 192 of Corrupting Camille
He didn’t guess. He studied.
Not the PR perfect heiress I sold to the world.
Me.
The girl who strips off her control in private. The one who likes to feel pretty, but powerful. Expensive, but ruinable. The kind of woman who wants to be seen and still taken.
It’s equal parts terrifying and intoxicating, being known this thoroughly. Anticipated. Curated. Possessed.
Because Kane doesn’t just buy gifts. He builds altars.
And I’m the offering.
The first day I slept. Deep, dreamless, as if my body finally collapsed under months of tension and secrets. The second, I wandered. Got lost. Found a room tucked away in the eastern wing, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, big velvet chairs, a record player with Nina Simone already spinning. I stayed there for hours.
By the third day, the stillness started to itch beneath my skin. The guards stopped reacting to me. The housemaids smiled gently. Kane’s presence became more ghost than man, gone before breakfast, back only when the moon was high and I was already naked in his bed.
He consumes my nights.
But my days?
They’re starting to feel...empty.
So I made a friend.
Sort of.
His name’s Leo, and he’s Kane’s personal chef, or, more accurately, the culinary magician responsible for the quiet five-star meals that show up whether I ask or not. Late twenties, golden-brown curls, arms covered in tattoos of knives, fish, and citrus. He’s Cuban American, sharp-witted, fast-talking, and completely unbothered by who Kane is.
Which is probably why I like him.
We bonded over mint tea and my refusal to eat anything pink and raw, no matter how “beautifully marbled” it is.
Today, he’s prepping ceviche barefoot on the stone floor, shirt rolled at the elbows, hands moving like choreography across a cutting board, and I’m perched on one of the island stools with my chin in my hand, laughing so hard it actually hurts.
He says something wildly inappropriate in Spanish about Kane’s taste in women, laced with obvious admiration, not disrespect, and I snort, nearly choking on my drink.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I warn him, still laughing, wiping the corner of my eye.
Leo shrugs, grinning. “If I’m gonna die, this is the way to go. Beautiful woman, good lime, a little risk. Let’s make it poetic, baby.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. For the first time in days, I feel...normal. Not like a kept thing. Not like prey. Just Camille. Hair messy, skin warm from the sun streaming in through tall glass windows, wearing a white cotton dress and bare feet on cold stone.
I’m still giggling when I feel it.
The shift.
The air goes taut.
Heavy.
Like a wire pulled too tight.
Leo notices it too. His knife pauses mid-slice, and his eyes flick up behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know.
Kane’s home.
