Page 94 of Corrupting Camille
Don’t fuck this up.
Preston doesn’t have to say it. He doesn’t even have to look at me. The way his hand tightens on mine, firm, practiced, a little too tight, is enough.
And I won’t.
I never do.
We glide through the terrace like we’re made for this world. Like we were carved from marble just to look good under a chandelier. My hand tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow, a picture-perfect political girlfriend, soon to be fiancé.
I keep my head high. Smile soft. Shoulders straight. Every step rehearsed. Every breath controlled.
But every smile hurts.
Every step feels like it’s dragging a thousand invisible pounds behind it.
Because I can feel them watching, everyone. Their eyes trail over my dress, my posture, my expression, reading me like a polished press release.
She’s going to be his wife. He’s announcing tonight. She looks so composed. So perfect.
They don’t see the crack down the middle of me. The one splitting wider with every step I take.
The part of me that wants to scream. The part of me that wants to rip off this dress, shatter the champagne glass in my hand,and run until the lights disappear and the cameras fade, and I can finally just breathe.
But instead, I smile.
Because that’s what I’ve been trained to do.
My eyes scan the crowd, habit, survival. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I stop.
Until I freeze.
Until my heart slams into my ribs and stays there, caged and frantic and burning.
Because he’s here.
Kane.
Kane Rivera stands across the terrace like a living threat. Tall. Broad. A slow-burning explosion in a tailored black tuxedo that fits him like sin. His shirt is open just enough to show the edge of ink near his throat, teasing skin I once traced with my mouth. His jaw is sharp, the cut of his stare sharper.
He isn’t talking. Isn’t moving.
Just watching.
Me.
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since that night in the back of his Rolls, since he dragged me into the dark and made me forget how to breathe. Two months since he spread me open, ruined me with his mouth, his hands, his words. Since he made me beg. Cry. Come apart.
And now he’s here. Unapologetic. Dangerous.
Worse, he didn’t come alone.
He brought her.
Ivy Prescott.
The girl who once dated my cousin, slept with my ex, and nearly got me suspended from Spence for a rumor she whispered just loud enough to catch fire. A name that still clings to East Coast society pages like perfume on silk. Her father’sin oil. Her mother’s in rehab. And Ivy? Ivy’s in everything, everyone’s business, everyone’s beds, and apparently, now… on Kane’s arm.
