Page 91 of Corrupting Camille
Wearing someone else’s version of her life like it fits.
Like it doesn’t choke her when no one’s looking.
I know what happened on that boat.
I know what she survived.
Joaquin pulled the file. Or what’s left of it.
Too clean.
No fingerprints.
No paper trail.
Like it never happened.
They tried to erase it.
But I heard her.
“…he hurt me… I told him I’d tell…he pushed me…”
I fucking heard her.
Her voice is still lodged in my fucking bloodstream. Small. Cracked. The whisper of a girl who learned too early how the world really works.
I close my eyes. Tight. But I still see her, soaking wet, drowning quietly in her own silence.
Now she’s drowning again, except this time she’s willingly handing herself to a man whose hands aren’t strong enough to hold her secrets, let alone her soul.
Tonight’s not about revenge.
Tonight is about Camille remembering I haven’t let her go.
Not for a second.
Not when she ghosted me.
Not when she shut off her phone.
The Ashby Estate dinner is a closed circle of wealth and power; the kind of glittering shit-show Camille was raised to navigate flawlessly. Everyone’s wearing smiles and hiding knives behind their backs.
The perfect place to push her straight into oblivion…where I’ve made my kingdom.
Invitation only. Couples preferred.
I need someone who won’t cling. Who won’t break character.
Someone polished enough to pass, sharp enough to cut through the bullshit and Camille.
My usual girls won’t work.
They talk too much.
They need too much.
I need quiet cruelty.
