Page 96 of Corrupting Camille
Just another girl he made fall apart.
And I did fall apart. For him. On him. With him inside me, whispering things that felt like truth.
And now he’s standing there with Ivy bitch Prescott like he didn’t rip my world to shreds and then vanish.
Like I haven’t been choking on silence while he’s been playing dress-up with someone who looks like she bites.
He tilts his head slightly, like he can feel my rage burning holes straight through his tailored suit. Then his eyes find mine, lazy and dark, and the corner of his mouth tips up into that cruel little smirk he saves only for me.
My stomach twists violently, a knife plunging deep and turning slow.
Fuck him.
Fuck this game.
Fuck my own traitorous heartbeat, thundering wildly like it doesn’t remember how much this hurts.
Preston murmurs something beside me, something charming and smooth and empty, and I nod like I heard him. Like I’m not bleeding right here, in front of everyone. Like I’m not clinging desperately to the shattered remnants of the woman Kane Rivera broke open with his mouth, his hands, his body.
Ivy slides a manicured hand over Kane’s chest, effortlessly intimate, as casual as breathing. Her nails, blood-red, like her mouth, graze his jacket, marking her territory, staking her claim.
She smiles at me, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that knows exactly where it hurts and pushes deeper.
I hate her.
But not nearly as much as I hate myself for caring.
For feeling anything at all.
Kane moves, guiding Ivy toward us, toward me, and my body goes rigid, every muscle tense, a storm of dread and anticipation colliding inside my chest.
Panic surges, violent and visceral.
I can’t face him. Not like this. Not with her. Not with my heart beating itself bloody, my pride on the verge of collapse.
I turn fast…too fast…
“Let’s go to our table,” I whisper urgently, forcing the words through clenched teeth, my throat tight, constricted, desperate. “Now.”
Preston pauses, startled, glancing down at me. “Camille? Are you alright?”
“Please,” I beg softly. Just once. Just tonight. “I just…I need to sit.”
He hesitates another second, and I know, I fucking know, Kane’s close. I feel him behind me, his heat searing through silk and skin, his presence carving into my spine like a blade.
Preston offers his arm.
I take it like a drowning woman clutching a raft, white-knuckled, trembling.
And I give Kane my back.
It feels like stepping onto a battlefield in stilettos.
Because I know what it’ll do to him.
He doesn’t like being ignored. Doesn’t like being dismissed. Doesn’t like being walked away from like he’s not the most dangerous man in the room.
But I do it anyway.
