9. Chapter Nine #2
She’s trembling.
Not in fear, yet. It’s something rawer. Closer to unraveling. Every breath she tries to suppress is a confession. Every delicate shiver beneath that flawless exterior is a tell. Camille Sinclair, heir to a porcelain throne, is fracturing beside me.
I don’t need to look. Her tension lives in my bloodstream now.
My hand twitches under the tablecloth. Still hot from touching her. Still aching to own that pulse again, to shove her thighs open and make her remember who she really belongs to, especially now, sitting here beside the puppet she’s supposed to call her future.
Preston laughs. Fucking oblivious. Ivy feeds him another scripted smile like she’s not just his plus-one but his handler. Meanwhile, Camille sits on the edge of combustion. And I’m the match.
I tip back my glass, slow and unbothered. The burn of wine does nothing to cool the fire crawling under my skin. She’s shaking, and it’s mine. Every ragged inhale. Every inch of her body begging to be contained, ruined, reshaped.
Beautiful.
But not enough.
I want her heart clawing against my grip. I want the panic, the begging, the part of her that still thinks she can survive this. I want her to break and know I’ll be the one to decide whether she gets rebuilt.
Across the table, Charles Sinclair stands. His voice slices through the hum of wealth and arrogance like a scalpel. “Kane’s integration into Sinclair Media has been… transformative. Aggressive, maybe, but necessary.”
Camille doesn’t tense…she locks. Like a system shutting down. Her body knows what her mouth won’t say: she’s not in control anymore. She never was.
Tate lifts his glass beside Charles, all smooth cruelty and veiled threat. “Necessary’s one word for it,” he says, looking directly at me. “Let’s just say I owed Kane a favor. He handled something for me… something no amount of money or politics could touch.”
The room stills. Heads turn. Preston’s face shifts, confusion, suspicion, something else, something pathetic.
“You two… know each other?” he asks, voice forced light, trying to play catch-up in a game he was never invited to.
Tate smiles. “Know is such a polite term. Kane and I understand each other. We speak the same language.”
Preston’s hand curls around his wineglass. White-knuckled. Good. Let him sweat.
“Language?” Preston says, voice brittle.
“The language of power,” I murmur, voice low and brutal as I glance at Camille. “And consequences.”
She flinches. A tiny tell. Enough to make my blood sing.
Charles interrupts, clearing his throat like he still believes he commands a room that’s already mine. “To partnerships,” he says.
“To partnerships,” they all echo.
But not her.
Camille’s eyes flick to her father. The betrayal there is almost art. It tightens something in me, something twisted. Because I don’t want her ruined by Charles. Or by Preston. I want her destroyed by me. On my terms. At my hands.
The moment dissolves. Fake laughter resumes, plastic and pathetic.
I lean in, slow and controlled, my lips a breath from her ear. “Look at him,” I whisper. “Your father. Dressing you up and handing you over like an offering. Watch him smile while you burn.”
She jerks. A tiny, desperate reflex.
And goddamn, I drink it in.
Victory isn’t sweet. It’s addictive. Brutal. Raw. A visceral pleasure slicing through me, deeper because she can’t stop herself. Her body knows truths her mind still pretends aren’t real.
“Shut up,” she whispers, voice a threadbare plea.
Too late, Princesa.
Preston rises, smoothing his jacket, every gesture polished, rehearsed, fucking empty. He taps the glass softly, demanding attention like a child craving applause.
“I’d like to say a few words,” he begins, voice dripping with manufactured sincerity. His gaze sweeps the room, pauses on Camille, but he doesn’t see her. Doesn’t notice the rigid spine, the broken rhythm of her breathing, the sheer panic shimmering just beneath that flawless, expensive facade.
But I do.
I see every crack.
“Tonight isn’t merely about gathering allies,” Preston continues, voice too calm, too slick. “It’s about opportunity. Tradition merging seamlessly with progress. My father once told me leadership isn’t inherited. It’s earned through courage, conviction, and sacrifice.”
The room murmurs politely, a hollow buzz of approval he feeds off like oxygen. He lifts his chin, the picture of false modesty.
“Leadership is a calling,” he says, voice swelling with counterfeit passion. “A responsibility. And tonight, I answer it proudly.”
He pauses, his moment choreographed, pathetic in its predictability. “I’m honored to announce that I’m officially running for the United States Senate.”
The applause surges, polite and meaningless, a performance. Camille doesn’t move beside me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t fucking breathe.
Because she knows what’s next.
We both do.
Preston turns slowly toward her, his smile softening to practiced tenderness, an actor delivering his line flawlessly. He dips his hand into his pocket, pulling out the velvet box like a trophy, oblivious to the noose he’s tightening around her throat.
“Camille.” His voice drops, earnest, nauseatingly sincere. He sinks gracefully to one knee. “My future means nothing without you. Stand beside me. Be my strength, my partner…my wife.”
Her body freezes, trapped by a decision she isn’t making. Shallow breaths flutter in her chest. Her gaze darts to mine, frantic, pleading silently, desperately.
But I offer no escape.
“Will you marry me?” Preston asks, voice unwavering, confident.
Camille hesitates, heartbeat after fragile heartbeat passing until it feels like the room itself is holding its breath. She stares at him, then at the ring, trapped, cornered.
Camille
Preston’s down on one knee.
The room blurs around me, faces, sounds, colors, all smearing into a dizzying whirlpool of expectation and suffocating perfection.
My mother leans forward, eyes glittering hungrily, practically salivating at the perfect moment unfolding in front of her. She’s waited years for this, for the glittering diamond, the perfect pictures, the social media spectacle. For her daughter to become everything she groomed me to be.
Charles Sinclair’s smile stretches wide, eyes gleaming with pride and ambition. I can practically feel him calculating votes, connections, the precise weight of what this engagement could mean for Sinclair Media.
Clara’s smile is genuine, open, honest, everything mine is not. She claps her hands softly, eyes bright with happiness that twists inside me like a knife. My sister deserves sincerity. Happiness. Something real. Something more than this hollow spectacle.
And me?
I can’t breathe.
Preston’s voice reaches me through the haze. Words I’ve rehearsed in nightmares and daydreams alike.
“Camille,” he says, voice shaking slightly, nerves, sincerity, or perhaps just the audience we’ve collected tonight. “Will you marry me?”
He holds the ring box open, a diamond big enough to be vulgar, catching every light in the room. Glittering. Perfect.
My tongue feels thick, useless. The air around me turns heavy, pressing against my chest until my lungs burn, until I’m silently screaming beneath a flawless, frozen mask.
And then, against every instinct I have, against the silent scream clawing at the back of my throat, my eyes betray me. They flick to the space beside me landing exactly where they should never have gone.
On him .
Kane’s stare is dark, unreadable, utterly calm in a way that chills me to the bone. He’s leaning back, wine glass casually dangling between his fingers. His lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk.
He knows.
Knows how trapped I am.
Knows I’m suffocating beneath the weight of my parents’ expectations, my sister’s innocence, Preston’s blind ambition.
And he loves it.
The silence stretches, awful and unbearable. I force air into my lungs, feeling like it might choke me. I glance quickly back at my mother, watching her eyes widen slightly, demanding my answer. Demanding I don’t ruin this.
“Camille?” Preston prompts quietly, still smiling, but doubt’s crept in. I can see it clearly, the uncertainty, the shadow of hurt hovering just behind his carefully composed mask.
I swallow hard.
I have one word. One chance.
But instead of truth, my mouth forms the lie I’ve rehearsed my entire life.
“Yes,” I whisper. My voice barely carries, but it’s enough. “I’ll...I’ll marry you.”
The room bursts into applause, loud and sharp, suffocating in its celebration of my surrender. Preston stands, fingers cool and steady as he slides the ring onto my hand.
The diamond presses into my skin, heavy, unyielding.
A weight. A sentence.
A cage disguised as forever.
My mother rises, clapping loudly, her smile brilliant, victorious. Charles nods approvingly, satisfaction glowing in his eyes. Clara rushes over, eyes bright and joyous, arms wide as she embraces me, squeezing me tight.
I smile back, forced and brittle.
But it’s not them I feel.
It’s Kane, his gaze burning against my skin, mocking every forced breath, every second I pretend this is what I want.
And when I finally dare to glance at him one last time, he lifts his glass in a silent toast. Eyes glittering, mouth curling cruelly at the edges.
As if he’s congratulating himself.
As if he’s just won a battle I didn’t even realize I was losing.
And the worst part?
He’s right.
***
It’s happening.
It’s actually happening.
The room moves around me in flashes of perfume and champagne, warm bodies pressing too close, congratulations slurred over classical music and the gentle chime of glass. Preston’s hand stays curled tightly around mine, lifting it like a trophy as he drags me from one cluster of people to the next.
“Thank you,” I say. “We’re thrilled.”
I smile.
I nod.
I smile again.
It doesn’t matter who’s speaking. The words blur.