5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
C amille
Fourteen days.
That’s how long I’ve perfected the lie.
Sliding gracefully back into the skin I was raised to wear, Camille Sinclair. Heiress.
My smile is still flawless. My words still practiced. My charm, a weapon I wield gracefully.
My afternoons belong to society luncheons, sipping tea laced with envy and gossip, where every compliment hides a blade, every laugh masks contempt.
My evenings, filled with wedding plans, my mother flipping through lace samples as if each thread is woven with strategic consequence. Clara’s bridal gown becomes political theater. Another battle in our quiet war of appearances.
My nights, galas. Fundraisers. Event after event of handshakes with men who see a name, not a woman. Men who nod politely, eyes never slipping below the pearls at my throat, all while mentally tallying the favors my father owes them.
And then there’s Preston.
My perfect boyfriend.
Husband to be.
Future senator.
His smile manufactured as carefully as his promises.
We look impeccable together. Two dolls arranged by careful hands. I allow his palm at the small of my back, let him speak for us both while cameras flash, capturing our curated illusion.
Days blur.
Routines numb. And forgetting becomes an art form, one I’ve become devastatingly good at.
Forgetting the burn of whiskey on another man’s mouth.
Forgetting the heat of his hands, not gentle, never gentle, but fiercely possessive, gripping hard enough to mark beneath the surface.
Forgetting the rough whisper of his voice, the dangerous promises he growled into my skin, leaving scars no one else can see.
Forgetting the way my body bent for him willingly, eagerly, desperately, shameless and raw.
Forgetting how I broke beneath him, how I surrendered, how I wanted it.
How I still fucking want it.
How I wake tangled in sheets, heart racing, throat aching, my fingers already reaching for the phantom sensations he left branded into my skin.
He’s there every night, haunting my dreams, mercilessly real.
I wake wet.
Empty.
Devastated that my hands aren’t his, that it’s not his breath hot on my neck, his weight pinning me down.
But I pretend.
I wear the mask.
I smile, I lie, I endure.
Because that’s what Sinclair women do best.
We master illusion.
We bury truth.
We hold still as the universe watches…and laughs.
***
My father’s office wasn’t built for comfort. It was built to remind people where they stand.
Sixty floors above Manhattan, glass walls swallow the skyline, turning every visitor into a reflection against a city they’ll never own. The books lining the shelves aren’t read, they’re decoration. Leather-bound props in a performance of legacy and control.
Everything in this room serves a purpose.
To impress.
To intimidate.
To establish hierarchy.
And here, at this table?
Possibility isn’t discussed.
It’s dictated.
And me?
I sit beside them. Spine straight. Hands folded neatly. Voice silent unless summoned. Camille Sinclair, Vice President of Public Relations and Philanthropy. A title meant to sound powerful, but I know what it really is:
Decoration. Distraction. A pretty silhouette at my father’s side.
I’m here to soften the sharp edges of his empire.
To smile for donors.
To wear the dress.
To say yes.
To marry the man they’ve chosen.
But one thing is mine.
The Foundation.
The only part of this legacy I built with my own hands. Real people. Real impact. Scholarships. Community programs. Second chances. And lately?
It’s being strangled.
Budgets disappearing. Approvals delayed. Meetings canceled without explanation. The doors that used to swing open the moment I knocked are now bolted shut behind bureaucratic smirks and vague excuses.
That’s why I’m here.
To fight.
To reclaim what’s mine.
I wait, listening as my father speaks. His voice is calm, confident. So are the men around him, men who’ve never been told no in their lives. They talk numbers. Forecasts. Optics.
Then…
A pause.
A shift in air pressure.
Something changes.
My father’s voice falters, barely, but I catch it. A tightness around the mouth. A flicker of annoyance.
A ripple tears through the room.
Not a sound. Not a word.
But I feel it.
Like something long dead just clawed itself from the grave.
I turn my head….and all the oxygen leaves my body in a single, violent rush.
Because he walks in.
Him.
The man whose fingerprints still linger beneath my skin. Whose rough voice still haunts my sleep. The man whose face I spent the last two weeks desperately trying to erase from memory and failing miserably.
He was never supposed to come back.
A mistake. A reckless, impulsive night I thought I could bury beneath silk sheets and silence. A stranger whose name I deliberately never asked because names make things real, and he was a fantasy. A filthy, consuming secret, meant to vanish with the morning sun.
But now here he is, stepping through the boardroom doors like he’s walking onto a battlefield he’s already conquered.
The air thickens instantly. Every breath turns jagged, catching painfully in my chest. The solid mahogany table beneath my palms suddenly feels fragile, inadequate. The walls of glass surrounding us leave me exposed, vulnerable, like a trapped butterfly pinned beneath relentless scrutiny.
And he hasn’t even looked at me yet.
The tension crackles around him, invisible threads of dominance tightening as he strides into the room, calm, composed, utterly ruthless.
The men seated around the table, seasoned businessmen, powerful players in tailored suits fall quiet, sensing an intruder who doesn’t belong yet somehow owns every inch of the space he occupies.
Even my father, always composed, utterly unshakeable, rises slowly to his feet. The brief hesitation in his usually confident stance speaks louder than any words can.
“Mr. Rivera,” my father says, extending his hand with practiced courtesy. “Welcome to Sinclair Media.”
Rivera .
The name sinks between my ribs, deep and unapologetic, marking territory it has no right to claim. A name I’d never known belonging the man whose face and touch I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to erase from my body, from my head, from every breath I pull in.
His mouth tips into something small, sharp, arrogant. A quiet taunt that drips danger onto my father’s polished floors. He clasps my father’s hand with an authority that makes the gesture feel more like conquest than greeting.
And then his eyes lift, straight past my father, right to me.
“Just Kane,” he says softly.
The rough edge of his voice slides straight down my spine, hooking itself into dark corners I’ve tried so hard to bury. He speaks his name like he’s handing me something heavy, something that belongs to me, something I’ll never be able to set down again.
Kane.
It echoes inside me like a heartbeat turned fierce and feral, a promise whispered at the back of my neck, dangerous and inevitable.
He’s watching me like he remembers everything.
He takes his time claiming his seat directly across from me. Each movement deliberate, leisurely, radiating quiet arrogance. He’s not here to negotiate. Not here to invest. He’s here to watch me squirm, to reclaim every piece of control I foolishly thought I had when I walked away from him.
His suit is dark, tailored precisely over broad shoulders and powerful muscle.
Not flashy, not obvious. A subtle dominance, demanding attention without begging for it.
Two buttons open at his throat reveal a hint of ink etched onto golden-brown skin a dark promise hidden beneath crisp white cuffs.
Tattoos that speak of secrets I’ve tasted but never fully learned.
A past written in blood and violence and mystery I’m terrified to explore yet desperate to unravel.
He reclines slightly in the chair, his gaze never leaving mine.
The room shrinks to nothing but the small space between us.
The voices around the table fade to distant echoes, meaningless, insignificant.
The only sound I hear clearly is the rush of blood through my veins, the pounding of my heart that he seems to feel, judging by the faint tilt of his lips.
His eyes, dark, dangerous, endlessly deep, hold mine captive, stripping away the carefully crafted mask I’ve worn for years. He sees beneath it effortlessly. He sees me.
He sees the woman who sobbed pleasure and pain into his black silk sheets. Who begged shamelessly for his mouth, his hands, his cock. The woman who surrendered everything to a stranger she now knows as Kane Rivera.
Heat floods my cheeks, humiliation and arousal coiling together, igniting beneath my skin. I hate that he can still affect me like this. Hate how quickly my body remembers the weight of him pinning me down, the taste of him, the feel of him stretching me, owning me. Hate how badly I still crave it.
His gaze sharpens slightly, as if sensing the sudden spike in my pulse. A small, cruel smile forms at the corner of his mouth, invisible to anyone but me.
My fingers curl tight beneath the table, nails digging painfully into my palms. I fight to keep my face composed, calm, unaffected, even as every cell in my body screams with recognition, with need, with panic.
Because Kane isn’t just here for Sinclair Media.
He isn’t here to play by anyone’s rules.
He’s here for me.
And from the dark, ruthless look he pins me with, he has no intention of letting me run away again.
Kane
She doesn’t look at me.
Not at first.
But she knows I’m here, feels it deep in her bones, in that rigid, perfect spine, in those delicate hands folded too carefully on the table. She holds herself like one wrong move could shatter everything she’s spent a lifetime building.
And she’s right.
I shake her father’s hand, smile polite and calculated. Just enough charm to reassure the room, just enough civility to hide the truth that I’m not here for pleasantries.
I’m here for her.