Page 80 of Corrupting Camille
PS: Your fiancé-to-be was at the Ashby's tonight. Nathan said he’s dropping hints about proposing soon. Brace yourself, babe.
My pulse quickens, stomach twisting painfully. Preston. A proposal. The future I’d convinced myself was mine.
It all feels empty now. Hollow.
Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see Preston. I see Ava’s wide, haunted eyes staring back at me, mirroring the truth I’ve been running from: I’m still that scared girl trapped underwater,fighting for air. I still need saving, but maybe now, I’m finally learning to save myself.
I turn off the lights and slip beneath the covers, body heavy with a fatigue deeper than sleep can reach.
Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, I reclaim control.
For Ava. For myself.
For every girl the world has forgotten.
***
I don’t go to lunch with Lena.
Not because I don’t need her, I do, desperately, but because right now, I need myself more. Seeing Ava cracked something open inside me, something raw and painfully real that I’ve spent years burying beneath pearls, diamonds, designer clothes, and carefully prepared statements.
So, I cancel everything.
Lunch dates, emails, calls, obligations, appearances.
All of it.
I don’t even give an excuse. For once, I don’t pretend.
Instead, I return to Haven House.
I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, not Lena, not my parents, not Preston, and definitely not Kane. I simply vanish into quiet purpose.
I spend two days there, rolling up my sleeves and working alongside Marcy and the volunteers. I pour every ounce of my focus and savings into transforming the crumbling building into a place these girls can truly call home. My money, my choices, no strings attached.
We tear out old carpeting, replace it with soft rugs and sturdy flooring. I paint walls myself, brushing fresh white primer over dark, stubborn stains until my shoulders ache and my vision blurs. Beds are delivered, with warm quilts that feel likepromises when I spread them out, smoothing every wrinkle away. Closets are stocked with clothes that are brand-new, not castoffs, not charity leftovers, but carefully chosen outfits that feel personal, hopeful.
By midnight of the second day, the rec room glows softly, lit by lamps that cast gentle shadows rather than harsh fluorescence. There’s laughter here now, whispers and careful smiles instead of tense silence. I don’t announce my presence, don’t stand in front of cameras or pose for a press release. I simply place a check on Marcy’s desk, enough to cover eight months of operating costs, then quietly slip out into the rain.
The downpour hits hard, soaking through my coat within seconds, but I don’t run for cover. I walk slowly, deliberately, letting the icy water wash away some of the numbness.
Tonight, everything feels closer. Louder. More honest.
Memories surface with every step, the past clawing free from the dark place I’d hidden it. The night on the yacht, the cold water, the silence underwater, it floods back so vividly that I have to stop, gasping, bracing myself against a lamppost as if I might drown again, right here on the street.
I close my eyes, the rain blending with hot tears I refuse to acknowledge.
What hurts most isn’t even the trauma itself, it’s the silence after. It’s my mother’s indifferent gaze, smoothing down my hair, shushing me like a misbehaving child. It’s my father’s voice, impatient and dismissive six months later, when he finally bothered to look at me again:
“You’re still letting that affect you?”
As if trauma was a choice. As if survival was something to be ashamed of.
I was ten years old, and that was the first time I understood that surviving wasn’t bravery, it was just expected.
Now, at twenty-four, I’m still surviving. Still smiling on cue. Still chasing approval and hoping for acceptance from people incapable of offering either.
I pull out my phone, my fingers slippery, hovering over Lena’s contact, but even Lena doesn’t know this part of me. I press the phone against my chest, cold and shivering, hating the ache of loneliness inside.
