5. Chapter Five #3
Heat floods my cheeks, a flush of humiliation and rage battling behind my ribs. I glance around the table, seeking a familiar face, but no one meets my eyes. They’re nodding along, already realigned, already following him. My stomach knots tighter.
Bastards.
“I think…” I start again, voice firming, desperation clawing beneath my practiced calm.
“Respectfully, Miss Sinclair,” he cuts in again, coolly, emphasizing that title like it’s an insult, “I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”
Silence slams through the boardroom. Cold. Brutal. Absolute.
I’m pinned beneath his eyes, caught in his gaze like prey. My throat closes, my heartbeat pounds too loudly. I feel every crack in my armor widening, every carefully constructed piece of my dignity splintering beneath the weight of his dominance.
His expression never shifts. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t smirk.
He just watches.
He watches me realize exactly what this is: Retribution. Punishment .Ownership.
And suddenly, I understand. He’s not here for the Foundation. He’s not even here for Sinclair Media.
He’s here to destroy me. To make sure I never forget what happened between us, that it wasn’t a mistake. It was deliberate. Ruthless. Intentional.
And it’s far from finished.
The silence stretches, oppressive and choking. Finally, Charles Sinclair clears his throat.
“Thank you, Kane,” he says smoothly, offering a tight, polite smile, oblivious to the violence lingering just beneath the surface. “We appreciate your expertise and look forward to working closely with you.”
My father’s words stab deep, betrayal slicing through me. I sit frozen, helpless.
Kane’s gaze never leaves my face. A slow, dark gleam burns quietly behind his eyes, like he’s savoring every single second.
He nods once. “I look forward to it.”
And I know exactly what he means.
I’m the one who walked out of his penthouse that morning. But he’s the one who walked into my world.
And now…I don’t know how the hell I’m ever going to get him out.
***
The second the meeting adjourns, I’m up. Chair shoved back, pulse thundering in my veins, fingertips numb. I feel him watching, eyes burning into my back like he can peel away layers of skin and bone and reach something deeper. Something I don’t want him to see.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not here. Not now.
Sinclair women never run, but I move fast enough to blur the line. Heels click sharp and hurried against marble, echoing through empty hallways. I need air. Distance. Anything but the suffocating heat of Kane Rivera’s eyes.
I jab the elevator button like I can force it to appear faster, jaw clenched, nerves frayed.
Just get me out.
The doors finally opens, sleek stainless steel inviting me into temporary sanctuary. I step in quickly, hitting the lobby button with trembling fingers.
Just as the doors slides closed, a hand shoots out, stopping them cold.
My heart lurches into my throat.
No…
He steps inside. Slow. Casual. Intentional.
Like this is exactly where he planned to be.
Kane fills every inch of space effortlessly. A towering shadow, dark eyes unreadable, the air turning thick and hot the moment the doors seal shut behind him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to.
I press myself into the corner, arms crossed defensively, shoulders rigid. Trying to shield myself from the invisible pull radiating off him, from the memories already pushing their way to the surface.
His hand moves, casual, deliberate, pressing the emergency stop. The elevator jerks, frozen between floors.
My breath catches. My heartbeat trips over itself. My face flushes hot, pulse slamming painfully. I jerk my eyes upward, and he’s watching me.
“Is this how you leave meetings now?” he murmurs, voice quiet and lethal. “Running before the real conversation starts?”
My jaw tightens, throat dry, heart pounding wildly. “The meeting’s done.”
“No,” he says calmly, stepping forward. Closer. Each movement precise, controlled. Predatory. “The show’s done. This…” his eyes trace slowly down my body, lingering deliberately before snapping back to mine, “…is just us.”
“You had no right…” I start, but my voice cracks, raw and brittle, revealing too much of everything I’m trying to hide.
“To what?” he cuts in, voice sharp, mocking. “Speak?”
The words land like a slap, stinging, knocking me off balance.
And he sees it.
His gaze drags over me slowly. He steps closer, crowding me, his presence like a storm, dark, suffocating, inescapable.
“You walked into that boardroom,” he says, dangerously quiet, “armed with feelings. Dreams. Good intentions. Maybe that worked before, when everyone around that table owed your family something, but not anymore. They answer to me now.”
Anger flares through me, a desperate, defensive surge. “This isn’t a game, Kane. The Foundation helps real people…”
“The Foundation,” he interrupts, voice controlled and smooth, cold as steel, “belongs to Sinclair Media. And Sinclair Media answers to its board. Which means they answer to me.”
His calm destroys me. How effortlessly he claims the space, leaving me with nothing but empty hands and a hollow chest.
“What do you want?” I finally ask, hating how my voice shakes, hating how small I feel.
A slow smile curls his lips, sharp and lethal. “Now, that’s a dangerous question, Camille.”
The way he says my name, velvet-edged poison, sends heat spreading low in my stomach, a traitorous reaction my body can’t deny. He moves closer again, erasing the remaining distance between us until his warmth brushes my skin, intoxicating and terrifying.
“I should’ve known it was you,” I murmur softly, bitterness seeping into my voice. “The stalled approvals, the frozen budgets…”
“You should’ve known a lot of things,” he murmurs back, low and rough, voice brushing along my jaw like a threat, like a promise. “Starting with the fact that you don’t get to disappear on me.”
“It was one night,” I whisper, throat tight.
“Two weeks,” he counters, his breath hot on my ear, dark amusement lacing his voice. “Has it really been that easy to forget me?”
My breath catches, heart racing. I stare at the elevator panel, desperate for distance, for escape, for something solid to hold onto. “What?”
He shifts slightly, leaning in, the smirk on his lips pressing into my skin even though he hasn’t touched me.
“It’s been two weeks since you left my bed,” he murmurs softly, as casual as if he’s stating the obvious, as if the tension between us isn’t thick enough to suffocate. “Tell me, Camille…have you thought about me?”
I lift my chin, forcing ice into my tone. “Not for a single second.”
It’s a lie. We both know it.
Kane chuckles softly, low, dark, dangerous. “I saw the parting gift you left.”
My heart stops dead, stuttering, restarting with a violent slam. My lipstick print flashes in my mind, the reckless kiss I pressed to his mirror, soft and smudged and far too permanent.
His voice drops, low and knowing. “Rosewood. Soft on the outside, stubborn as fuck to wipe clean.” He pauses deliberately, watching my reaction. “But maybe that was the point.”
I swallow hard, throat tight. “It meant nothing.”
He chuckles quietly. “Liar.”
The word slips between us, slicing through every carefully built wall. The elevator hums softly, confining us, trapping me here with him. His presence thickens the air, oppressive, intoxicating, suffocating me until breathing feels dangerous.
And worse?
My body remembers him. Every touch, every stroke, every brutal, reckless thrust. My pulse quickens, blood heating traitorously beneath my skin.
He moves closer, crowding me against the wall until there’s nowhere left to go.
The cold surface bites through my blouse, a sharp contrast to the blistering heat radiating off him.
His scent floods my senses, dark spice, whiskey, expensive leather invading my lungs, filling my veins, unraveling every fragile thread of control I’ve desperately tried to cling to.
“I thought about you, Princesa,” he murmurs, voice rough, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Every. Fucking. Night.”
My breath catches sharply, stomach twisting with reckless, traitorous need. Heat blooms low and hot between my thighs, muscles tightening as I press my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to reach for him. To sink into the brutal comfort of his touch again.
“Woke up hard,” he continues, voice darkening, becoming harsher, a rasp of sandpaper against skin. “Thinking about how tight your sweet little cunt felt wrapped around my cock. How fucking soaked you got for me when I made you beg.”
His fingertips lift slowly, deliberately, tracing along the delicate gold necklace at my throat, the contact so slight yet burning like a brand. My pulse jumps, violent and frantic beneath his touch.
“Couldn’t stop hearing your voice,” he growls softly, dangerously, pressing closer until his lips graze my ear again. “The pretty way you begged playing on repeat…please touch me…please eat me…please fuck me…”
His words slice through me, raw, shameful, exquisite. Heat surges to my face, my neck, pooling molten in my core. I can’t breathe, can’t speak. Can’t deny a single word.
Because it’s true. Every filthy word, every humiliating plea, I said them. I whispered them. I meant them.
And the worst part is, I want to say them again. But damn if I will.
I steel myself, forcing a steady breath into my burning lungs. Slowly, deliberately, I lift my chin, meeting those dark eyes head-on. My heart pounds painfully in my chest, but I refuse to flinch beneath his stare.
“Well,” I say softly, each syllable sharp and deliberate, “at least one of us remembers that night clearly.”
His gaze narrows slightly, the dangerous glint in his eyes sharpening, but I keep my expression carefully indifferent, my smile razor-thin and cool. He wants to break me open, wants me begging again, but I won’t hand him that satisfaction.
Not now.
Not here.
My voice dips lower, mocking sweetness lacing every word as I tilt my head just slightly, like I’m sharing a secret.
“Tell me, do you always get this sentimental about one-night stands, or am I just special?”
His lips curl slowly, dangerously. Instead of irritation, instead of anger, amusement flickers behind his dark eyes. He leans in closer, invading my space further, one strong hand braced against the wall beside my head.
“Oh, Princesa, trust me.” His voice drips low, edged with lethal calm. “If you were nothing but a forgettable one-night stand, I wouldn’t be here.”
My pulse stutters, a traitorous hitch betraying the careful facade I’m clinging to. His gaze drops deliberately to my lips, lingering just long enough to scorch.
“You don’t just haunt my memory,” he murmurs, the edge of his mouth tugging cruelly upward. “You fucking own it.”
I swallow hard, my throat painfully tight. My fingers twitch, aching to shove him back, to strike, to do anything but stand here trembling like prey beneath his scrutiny.
I force my voice steady, cool enough to slice. “Sounds exhausting. Have you tried therapy?”
A soft laugh, dark and rough, escapes him. He leans impossibly closer, his breath hot against my skin as he whispers, “Why would I? Breaking you apart piece by piece is all the therapy I need.”
My stomach plunges violently, a rush of dangerous heat tightening every muscle. I want to push him away. I want to claw at his chest, to slap that infuriating smirk from his lips. But more than anything, the raw, shameful truth is, I want him to follow through.
Instead, I summon every ounce of Sinclair resolve I have left, and stare him down.
“Honestly, this obsession of yours? It’s starting to sound pathetic.”
His expression doesn’t flicker. The lazy smirk remains intact, arrogant, devastating. His gaze holds mine, unwavering, before he finally leans back slightly.
“Obsession?” he echoes softly, thoughtfully. “No, Camille. This is just good, old-fashioned hunting.”
He steps back further, giving me the illusion of breathing room, though we both know it’s too late.
“I always catch what I hunt, princesa,” he murmurs, eyes glinting dangerously. “Always.”
Mercifully, the elevator dings sharply, the doors sliding open to freedom.
I don’t hesitate.
I shove past him, pushing hard against the solid wall of muscle that is Kane Rivera. He doesn’t stop me, doesn’t even reach for me, just moves aside with a mocking ease, making my desperate exit feel even more humiliating.
Heat floods my cheeks as I rush out into the hallway, my pulse hammering violently, my breath shallow. I nearly stumble in my urgency to put distance between us, my heels clicking urgently against marble.
Behind me, I hear his voice, low, rough.
“Run as fast as you want, Princesa,” he calls softly, dark amusement woven through every word. “We both know exactly where you’ll end up.”
I don’t turn around.
I don’t dare.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.