Page 46 of Corrupting Camille
Sliding gracefully back into the skin I was raised to wear, Camille Sinclair. Heiress.
My smile is still flawless. My words still practiced. My charm, a weapon I wield gracefully.
My afternoons belong to society luncheons, sipping tea laced with envy and gossip, where every compliment hides a blade, every laugh masks contempt.
My evenings, filled with wedding plans, my mother flipping through lace samples as if each thread is woven with strategic consequence. Clara’s bridal gown becomes political theater. Another battle in our quiet war of appearances.
My nights, galas. Fundraisers. Event after event of handshakes with men who see a name, not a woman. Men who nod politely,eyes never slipping below the pearls at my throat, all while mentally tallying the favors my father owes them.
And then there’s Preston.
My perfect boyfriend.
Husband to be.
Future senator.
His smile manufactured as carefully as his promises.
We look impeccable together. Two dolls arranged by careful hands. I allow his palm at the small of my back, let him speak for us both while cameras flash, capturing our curated illusion.
Days blur.
Routines numb. And forgetting becomes an art form, one I’ve become devastatingly good at.
Forgetting the burn of whiskey on another man’s mouth. Forgetting the heat of his hands, not gentle, never gentle, but fiercely possessive, gripping hard enough to mark beneath the surface. Forgetting the rough whisper of his voice, the dangerous promises he growled into my skin, leaving scars no one else can see.
Forgetting the way my body bent for him willingly, eagerly, desperately, shameless and raw.
Forgetting how I broke beneath him, how I surrendered, how I wanted it.
How I still fucking want it.
How I wake tangled in sheets, heart racing, throat aching, my fingers already reaching for the phantom sensations he left branded into my skin.
He’s there every night, haunting my dreams, mercilessly real.
I wake wet.
Empty.
Devastated that my hands aren’t his, that it’s not his breath hot on my neck, his weight pinning me down.
But I pretend.
I wear the mask.
I smile, I lie, I endure.
Because that’s what Sinclair women do best.
We master illusion.
We bury truth.
We hold still as the universe watches…and laughs.
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