8. Chapter Eight #4
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’s in 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.
She’s draped against his side like she was poured into place, one long, lethal line of bone-deep confidence and blood-red lipstick.
Ivy doesn’t cling. She occupies. She doesn’t giggle. She hunts.
Her hair is darker than I remember, slicked back into a knot that makes her look even more dangerous. Her gown is red. Of course. Cut so low it should be a scandal. Her eyes, still that smoky, spoiled shade of blue, sweep the terrace like she’s above it all.
Until they find me.
And then she smiles.
Not sweetly. Not politely.
She smiles like a challenge.
Because Ivy Prescott doesn’t look at people, she dissects them.
She sees me beside Preston, hand tucked into his elbow, smiling like I don’t want to scream. She sees the ring that’s not there yet, the dress I picked to fade, the fracture running straight through my spine.
She knows.
She fucking knows.
Because this isn’t some random plus-one Kane plucked from the socialite graveyard. Ivy and I go back. She’s been trying to outmaneuver me since we were sixteen.
And tonight?
She’s not just here to play.
She’s here to win.
I force a smile, tight, polished, rehearsed. The kind I’ve had locked into muscle memory since Cotillion. But my ribs feel like glass. Brittle. One wrong breath and I’ll shatter into a thousand gleaming pieces, all of them screaming what the fuck are you doing here with him?
Because this?
This isn’t coincidence.
Two weeks of nothing, no texts, no calls, not even a whisper of Kane’s voice through the static I keep searching for like an addict.
And now he shows up at this dinner, in this house, at this exact moment, with her?
Like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
It’s war.
It’s deliberate.
Surgical.
He’s sending a message, and every cell in my body receives it:
You’re not special.
You’re not sacred.
You’re not immune.
He’s showing me that I was always just a game.
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.
Because it’s the only move I have left that might save me.
Or destroy me.
Preston leads us forward, smiling for the cameras, for the crowd, for the donors who will sign checks to fund his future.
And I follow, stiff and silent, feeling Kane’s eyes scorch a trail down my spine with every step.
I don’t have to look to know he’s watching.
I feel it.
Burning.
Kane
She runs.
Predictable.
Not surprising.
Not disappointing either.
Because beneath the panic, beneath the pride, beneath the wide-eyed terror of me and Ivy walking straight up to her future, straight fucking through it, Camille’s eyes burned.
That same wildfire look she gave me when she begged for more in the penthouse. When she rode my fingers in the backseat of the Rolls. The kind of look that says touch me and I’ll break, but please don’t stop.
And it’s that look, that flicker of need she still hasn’t learned to hide…that made her dodge.
Made her flinch.
Cut a clean, desperate line across the room like she could outrun this…outrun me.
Dragging Caldwell behind her like a life raft she just now remembered was sinking.
I watch her go.
And fuck… look at her.
The dress clings like a second skin, dark and liquid over caramel that I’ve tasted, bitten, bruised. Fabric sculpted to the delicate arch of her back, dipping low enough to make every man in this room want to sin.
Rounded hips sway with each retreating step, that heart-shaped ass I’ve gripped in both hands, fucked from behind, marked with my mouth. Legs for days, legs I’ve lived between, worshipped on my knees, palms locked around her thighs while she begged for more.
The slit in her dress cuts damn near to her hipbone, flashing glimpses of thigh that make my fists curl at my sides.
And her tits… Perfect. Pushed up high and smooth, right there on display like she doesn’t remember how I came on them the last time she called me a mistake.
She dressed for me.
She always does.
Even now, even running, she walks like she knows my eyes are on her. Like she wants them to be. Like some sick part of her needs to be hunted.
Beside me, Ivy shifts, following my gaze.
“Rivera,” Ivy purrs, voice all velvet edges and casual menace. “You’re staring.”
“Observing.”
“Looks more like plotting.”
My eyes flick briefly toward her, amused. “Multitasking.”
Ivy’s lips curve slowly, blood-red and viciously entertained. “She’s pretty when she runs.”
“She’s prettier when she begs.”
Her laugh is smoke, soft and dangerous. “And when she fights?”
“That’s when she’s fucking exquisite.”
She arches an eyebrow. “So, is tonight punishment or foreplay?”
“Yes.”
Ivy leans in, voice a silk whisper against my ear. “Good. I’d hate to think you called me here just for dinner.”
I give her a sharp smile. “You almost sound jealous.”
“I’m a lot of things,” Ivy says, lips brushing my jaw, casual as breathing, “but never jealous. Jealousy is for girls like Camille Sinclair.”
“Then you’ll enjoy this.” I nod toward the table ahead, where Preston pulls out Camille’s chair, oblivious. “Do me a favor, Ivy.”
“Name it.”
“Caldwell loves the sound of his own voice. Stroke his ego.”
She smirks, slow and filthy. “Want me to stroke anything else?”
I give her a dark smile. “If I do, you’ll know. Until then, remind him exactly why he spent four years at Yale trying to fuck you.”
She laughs softly, eyes glittering darkly. “Oh, I love it when you’re twisted, Daddy,”
I smirk, gaze locked on Camille’s stiff spine as she pretends not to notice us closing in. “Then you’re about to have the night of your life.”
Ivy squeezes my arm, her nails sharp enough to leave marks through my suit jacket. Her voice drops lower, a velvet tease. “And you’re sure your pretty little heiress won’t break?”
I watch Camille’s hand tighten around her champagne flute. Knuckles white. Glass shaking. Every nerve in her body screaming awareness.
“She’s tougher than she looks.”
Ivy hums softly. “Still, everyone has limits.”
“That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”
She tilts her head, eyes gleaming with curiosity and cruelty. “Just how far do you plan to push her tonight?”
I lean closer, breathing slow against her ear. “Until she begs.”
“For mercy?” Ivy murmurs.
“No,” I say, my voice a dark promise. “For more.”
Her laugh is quiet, viciously entertained. “You’re going to ruin her.”
I straighten, fixing my cuffs, ready to move. “She’s already ruined. Tonight, I’m just reminding her who did it.”