Page 72 of Corrupting Camille
“Always,” I whisper, because it’s the truest thing I can say.
She leads me quickly to the girls’ wing. The damage hits me like a blow, collapsed ceiling tiles, insulation hanging like torn spiderwebs, and a steady drip of water pooling into bucketsalready brimming over. Books, donated clothes, toys, all ruined. The sight of their small belongings wrecked breaks something deep inside me.
“I tried everyone,” Marcy says, voice shaking. “The funding’s stalled, and they won’t approve the insurance claim for weeks…”
“I’ll handle it,” I interrupt, pulling out my phone, already dialing numbers. My voice trembles as I talk to my assistant, to the plumber, to the bank. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. Fix this now. Today.”
Because it’s not just a broken pipe.
It’s broken promises, broken safety, broken trust.
Things I swore I’d never allow here.
Not in this place. Not to these children.
I walk away once it’s handled, my shoulders shaking from the adrenaline crash. My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I don’t allow them to fall.
Not yet.
That’s when I see her.
She’s curled up in the corner of the rec room, arms tightly wrapped around thin knees, eyes dark and hollow, fixed on something no one else can see. Her small frame looks unbearably fragile, like one touch could shatter her completely.
I stop breathing.
Because I recognize that girl instantly. She was me.
She still is, deep down. The girl who never felt safe enough to speak. The girl who nearly drowned in silence and fear.
Marcy touches my arm gently. “That’s Ava. She came two nights ago from a bad foster placement. She won’t speak to anyone.”
My heart squeezes painfully. I don’t need details to know what “bad placement” means.
Slowly, I walk toward her, knees trembling as I sink to the floor beside her beanbag, leaving just enough space for safety. She doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge me.
For a long moment, silence sits between us like a heavy blanket.
Then, softly, I speak.
“My name’s Camille. I haven’t been here in a while. But I used to come all the time.”
Her breathing quickens slightly, but she keeps her eyes fixed on nothing.
“You don’t have to talk to me. But I want you to know… I see you.”
Her small body tenses, as if bracing for pain. Recognition pulses sharply through my chest. I know that feeling, that armor, so painfully well.
She shifts slightly, shoulders tense, trying desperately not to listen, but I see her body still. I see the way she holds her breath, terrified of what might come next.
“When I was ten…my father had this friend.” My voice is barely audible, raw and trembling. The words taste bitter, like rust and regret, burning my throat as they scrape their way out. “He used to visit us often, always smiling. Charming. Harmless, they thought.”
She doesn’t move, but her eyes flick briefly toward me, just enough for me to know she’s hearing every broken word.
“One night, when everyone else was asleep, he came into my room,” I whisper, my chest tightening like a vise. “He touched me…hurt me in ways no adult should ever touch a child. When I threatened to tell, he panicked. Dragged me to the edge of my parent’s yacht and shoved me into the freezing ocean in the dark.”
My voice catches, and for a second I can’t breathe, trapped in that memory, the suffocating cold, the shock slicing like razorblades against my skin, water filling my lungs as I sank deeper into the blackness. I force myself to keep speaking, even though my throat aches from the effort.
“I remember sinking, the cold stabbing into me, the silence so deep it scared me. It felt like I was vanishing, like I was nothing. And all I could think was that no one would ever find out what he did, that the ocean would hide it forever.”
