8. Chapter Eight #3
“More than she loves any of us,” Marisol adds, eyes flicking over to me with something warmer beneath the teasing. “Even though we helped plan the entire quince and paid for the glitter pen set.”
I exhale through my nose, watching the night settle in again.
“You’re good with her,” Reina says.
“She’s a menace,” I answer, but my voice is softer now.
“You need that,” Marisol says. “Reminds you that you’re still human.”
Diego leans back, cigar burning low. “They’re not wrong.”
I nod once.
Because maybe they’re not.
Maybe this chaos, this warmth, this wild, loud little family, they’re the last pieces of me worth saving.
Before I go back to tearing everything else apart.
***
The second the wheels kiss tarmac, I’m moving.
Phone in hand. Jaw locked. Skintight with that kind of static twitch you can’t shake. Not with a drink. Not with a fuck. Not even with a kill.
It’s Camille.
It’s always her.
The SUV door slams shut behind me and the engine hums like it knows I’m about to ruin someone’s night.
Joaquin: She’s confirmed. Ashby Estate. 8PM. Caldwell’s bringing her.
My grip tightens. The screen might crack from how hard I’m holding it.
Of fucking course.
She’s still playing house. Still putting on the good-girl mask, parading around like that two-dimensional politician beside her isn’t just another prison she’s locked herself in.
Like she hasn’t clawed her nails down my back while whispering things she’s never said to anyone.
Like she didn’t beg me to keep going the last time she came apart in my hands.
She’s trying to disappear.
Again.
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.
I need a weapon in heels.
I pause on her name.
Ivy Prescott.
The only woman I’ve ever fucked who didn’t ask me what I do for a living, because she already knew.
She doesn’t get attached.
Doesn’t pretend.
And most importantly…she knows Preston Caldwell.
A shared past. Some Ivy League cocktail circuit nostalgia. Nothing serious.
But just enough to make Camille twitch.
I call.
She answers like she’s been waiting. “Well, hello Daddy…”
“Dinner. Ashby Estate. Tonight.”
A pause. Just the sound of Ivy’s breath, low, smoky. Calculating. “On your arm or your leash?” she asks finally, amusement dripping from every word.
“Whichever hurts more.”
She laughs softly, a dangerous little purr. “Then it’s a date. Who’s the mark?”
“Caldwell.”
“Ah.” Her voice sharpens, interest sparking beneath the silk. “Playing games with the senator-to-be?”
“Playing to win.”
“Careful, Rivera. Those are deep waters.”
“Good,” I say. “I swim best there.”
She laughs. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“No, you haven’t,” I say, already texting her the address. “You just like a front row seat when I set the world on fire.”
“You do put on a hell of a show.”
“Wear black. Be sharp enough to draw blood without lifting a finger.”
“I always am.”
I hang up.
She’s perfect. Cold enough to get through the night. Pretty enough to catch Caldwell’s attention.
Familiar enough to twist the knife.
Let Camille smile.
Let her hold his hand and pretend she’s made peace with her curated little life.
But the second she looks up?
I’ll be there.
In her line of sight.
In that bruised part of her that only wakes up when I’m around.
She thinks my silence means surrender.
It doesn't.
It means strategy.
Tonight, I ruin the ending she’s pretending to believe in.
Camille
The gates open like they’re doing it on purpose, dragging out every second, like even they know I don’t want to be here.
The Ashby Estate is ridiculous. All that ivy, the manicured hedges, those glowing lights that look like a magazine spread. It’s stunning. And completely fake.
The kind of beautiful that suffocates you.
Preston sits beside me, knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw locked like he’s posing for a campaign poster. He hasn’t looked at me once. I don’t need him to. I can feel it. He’s gone, mentally rehearsing the lines for the big speech. The big reveal. Senator Caldwell. And me? I’m the accessory.
The future-wife.
Behind us, I catch headlights flicker in the mirror, my parents.
Of course. I don’t have to turn around to picture it perfectly: Mom smoothing the neckline of her dress like she’s about to walk a red carpet, Dad adjusting his cufflinks like he’s got something to prove, and Clara…
checking herself in a compact mirror for the hundredth time, lips pursed just right.
The car rolls to a stop. And my stomach twists.
I don’t wait for the valet. The second the handle clicks, I’m out, heels clacking against the stone like I mean it. Cold air cuts across my bare shoulders, but I ignore it. A second later, Preston’s hand lands on my back. Warm. Steady… like a leash no one else can see.
Inside is already glowing, low laughter, that hum of money in the air, champagne flutes clinking gently. Music swells in the background like a movie score. Everything here is designed to impress.
I play my part.
“You, alright, darling?” Preston asks, just barely loud enough for me to hear. He’s already smiling. Always smiling. Just in case someone’s watching.
“Yes,” I say. Because I always do. “Perfectly fine.” The words tastes fake in my mouth.
Mrs. Ashby greets us first, all pearls and perfume, her hand warm on mine. “Camille, you look breathtaking.”
“Preston, you must be so proud,” she adds, giving him a smile like she already sees our future, white house, white teeth, white lies.
“She makes it easy,” Preston says. And he means it. Not in a sweet way. In the you’re doing your job way.
I smile again. My throat is tight.
The small talk buzzes around us like bees. Sweet, stinging, and totally impossible to escape. I nod at familiar faces, accept compliments on my dress like I didn’t just pick it to disappear into the room. I sip champagne that bubbles against my tongue like acid.
The terrace doors open with a soft sweep of sound, revealing a scene that’s straight out of some political fantasy: candlelit tables under soft glowing lights, flowers spilling from crystal vases, a pianist coaxing soft, elegant melodies from ivory keys. Everything polished, perfect, painfully so.
All for him. All for this.
I glance at Preston, his profile sharp under the golden glow. He looks like a man on the edge of power. Like he can already taste it. His hand tightens on mine.
The message is clear.
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.