Page 52 of Corrupting Camille
“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Sinclair.” His voice drops, low enough for only me to feel the threat underneath. “I’m stating a fact.”
The table ripples quietly with restrained whispers. Eyes shift between us, curious, sensing weakness.
My weakness.
“You’re overstepping.” The words are brittle, thin ice cracking beneath my feet.
His gaze locks with mine again, pinning me, holding me hostage.
“No.” His lips barely move, voice dangerously gentle. “I’m intervening. There’s a difference.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, humiliation and fury twisting tight in my chest. I want to stand up, scream at him, demand he stop. I want to run. I want to claw at the carefully composed face he wears like armor and force him to bleed just as openly as I am.
My vision blurs at the edges. My chest tightens, each breath a carefully masked battle.
He’s looking straight through me. Like I’m already erased. Reduced to nothing but another bullet point on his boardroom agenda.
And damn it…it hurts.
“Mr. Rivera.” My voice trembles slightly, and I hate myself for it. I gather my composure, straighten my spine, meet his gaze head-on. “The Foundation’s strategy has always been transparent. Every dollar is accounted for, and each program directly benefits the community…”
“I’m not disputing transparency,” he interrupts, voice calm, dismissive. Infuriatingly composed. “I’m disputing effectiveness.”
Heat floods my cheeks, a flush of humiliation and rage battling behind my ribs. I glance around the table, seeking a familiar face, but no one meets my eyes. They’re nodding along, already realigned, already following him. My stomach knots tighter.
Bastards.
“I think…” I start again, voice firming, desperation clawing beneath my practiced calm.
“Respectfully, Miss Sinclair,” he cuts in again, coolly, emphasizing that title like it’s an insult, “I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”
Silence slams through the boardroom. Cold. Brutal. Absolute.
I’m pinned beneath his eyes, caught in his gaze like prey. My throat closes, my heartbeat pounds too loudly. I feel every crackin my armor widening, every carefully constructed piece of my dignity splintering beneath the weight of his dominance.
His expression never shifts. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t smirk.
He just watches.
He watches me realize exactly what this is: Retribution. Punishment .Ownership.
And suddenly, I understand. He’s not here for the Foundation. He’s not even here for Sinclair Media.
He’s here to destroy me. To make sure I never forget what happened between us, that it wasn’t a mistake. It was deliberate. Ruthless. Intentional.
And it’s far from finished.
The silence stretches, oppressive and choking. Finally, Charles Sinclair clears his throat.
“Thank you, Kane,” he says smoothly, offering a tight, polite smile, oblivious to the violence lingering just beneath the surface. “We appreciate your expertise and look forward to working closely with you.”
My father’s words stab deep, betrayal slicing through me. I sit frozen, helpless.
Kane’s gaze never leaves my face. A slow, dark gleam burns quietly behind his eyes, like he’s savoring every single second.
He nods once. “I look forward to it.”
And I know exactly what he means.
