Page 84 of Corrupting Camille
“Make sure he feels every second,” I tell Javi, voice cold, lethal. “Then send what’s left to Torres’s people as a fucking postcard.”
“Done.”
I step outside into the sticky Miami air, the traitor’s screams still ringing faintly behind me.
I should feel something.
Satisfaction, closure. Anything.
Instead, there’s just a gaping emptiness, and in that emptiness sits Camille, the whisper of her voice raw in my memory.
Her pain is the one I can’t erase.
Mateo is avenged, but she’s still waiting.
And every breath between now and the moment I see her again is too fucking long.
Chapter Eight
Camille
“So, are we just gonna watch you mentally fuck your phone all night, or do you plan to rejoin us sometime soon?”
Lena’s words slash straight through the low-lit, leather-bound lounge. Her dark eyes glitter, the flicker of candlelight making her winged eyeliner shimmer wickedly as she arches one perfectly sculpted brow. Lena Wilder, wild blond curls cascading down her bare shoulders, flawless peaches and cream skin illuminated like an Instagram filter, knows exactly how to turn brutal honesty into an art form.
I shove my phone face-down on the table, rolling my eyes hard enough to bruise. “Dramatic much?”
“Bitch, always.” Lena smirks lazily, sipping her martini as she leans back, crossing toned legs wrapped in black leather pants so tight they could double as a second skin. “But I’m not wrong. You’re giving major ‘waiting-on-a-booty-call’ energy, and it’s honestly embarrassing.”
Noelle snickers loudly, nearly choking on her cosmopolitan. Petite and blonde, looking like she just stepped off a private jet from Saint-Tropez, she flicks a strand of silky hair behind her shoulder. “Seriously, Cami, if Preston’s playing fuckboy games, he needs to go. Immediately.”
I groan, grabbing my cocktail with a desperation that’s anything but subtle. “Guys, I swear…Preston’s not the problem.”
“No?” Lena’s voice is dripping with amused skepticism. “Then why are you so tragically moody? You’ve barely looked at your cocktail, you flinch every time your phone buzzes, and you haven’t laughed at any of my jokes, clearly, there’s a crisis.”
“Clearly,” Noelle agrees, nodding seriously. “She’s funnier when you’re sober, babe. It’s scary.”
“Rude,” Lena shoots back, lips twitching. “But accurate.”
“Can we not do this tonight?” I plead, swirling my straw aggressively through crushed ice. “We’re supposed to be having fun.”
“We are having fun,” Lena counters smoothly. “This is my fun. Bullying you into emotional honesty.”
I sigh dramatically, feigning boredom even as heat climbs steadily up my cheeks. I glance around the lounge, filled with beautiful people talking in hushed voices, the bass-heavy beat beneath their conversations matching the frantic rhythm of my heart. My phone stays stubbornly dark, Kane’s last message weeks old but still fresh enough to haunt every breath:
Dream of me, Princesa.
God, I hate him.
Almost as much as I want him.
Lena leans in again, relentless. “Okay, bitch, listen. I’ve known you since we were seventeen, drunk on stolen champagne at that godawful gala, hiding from your mom. You can lie to your Instagram followers, but you can’t lie to me.”
“My mom still hates you, you know,” I say dryly, desperately trying to derail the conversation.
“Shocker.” Lena rolls her eyes, unfazed. “My dad is a washed-up eighties drummer who still does coke off guitars, and my mom literally got famous for fucking on camera. I’m every bougie mother’s nightmare, especially yours.”
“But I love you anyway.” I smile sweetly, batting my lashes at her exaggeratedly.
