14. Chapter Fourteen #4
“Three days, Camille.” Her voice is ice wrapped in silk, brittle and slicing. “Not a word. Not a call. Nothing. Do you have any idea the position you’ve put us in?”
My father remains seated, fingers steepled, cold as a machine running a profit-and-loss analysis.
His voice cuts straight to the point, emotionless.
“The wedding must proceed, Camille. Preston’s candidacy has raised the stakes significantly.
It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement for both families, especially ours. ”
Beneficial. Lucrative. Always profit first.
“I was with Lena,” I repeat, a well-rehearsed script falling effortlessly from my lips. “Everything happening, the engagement, Preston’s campaign, Kane Rivera breathing down my neck, I was overwhelmed. I needed space. I needed air.”
The lie slides down my throat, smooth and easy, because I’ve been trained by masters.
Mother’s shoulders relax slightly, accepting my crafted truth, if reluctantly. Father, however, isn’t satisfied yet. His eyes sharpen dangerously.
“And Kane?” he asks bluntly. “Your mother has informed me about your interactions with Rivera. That man is toxic. Dangerous. I won’t have him compromising everything we’ve worked for.”
Something deep inside me snaps, frustration cracking through the mask I’ve worn for years.
“Kind of hard to stay away,” I bite back, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, “when you’ve handed him authority over everything I have. Rivera Holdings owns me because you let them.”
Silence thickens between us, my words hanging in the air like a challenge.
My father rises slowly, his movements precise and threatening. “Careful, Camille. You’re treading dangerously close to ingratitude. Preston and his family are critical to the future of Sinclair Media…your future. Whatever misguided fascination you have with Rivera ends now.”
He waits, expecting submission, waiting for me to fold. I hold his gaze, steel clashing against steel.
“I told you,” I repeat, calm but firm, “I was with Lena.”
He studies me, weighing the sincerity behind my perfectly constructed facade. Eventually, satisfied for now, he nods dismissively.
“Clean yourself up,” he orders. “There will be photographs tomorrow at brunch with Preston’s parents. Do not disappoint me again.”
The dismissal stings sharply, but I straighten my spine, holding his gaze until he looks away first.
I turn without another word, sneakers squeaking defiantly on marble, each step a quiet rebellion they can’t yet control.
***
My bedroom feels hollow now. It’s never felt so fucking fake, like stepping into a perfectly curated Instagram post. Clean lines, neutral colors, tasteful pieces of expensive art meant to disguise the emptiness beneath.
A lie, polished to perfection by parents who think wealth and status can buy happiness, obedience, silence.
I kick Lena’s sneakers off with more force than necessary, watching them skid across the carpet, smearing dirt on pristine white. A mess they’ll hate. A little rebellion they deserve.
Twenty-four, and still a puppet dancing on strings I’m still too cowardly to cut.
Stripping quickly, I climb into the shower and crank the water to scalding, desperate to burn away the memories of my parents’ eyes filled with judgment, their quiet threats and manipulations.
But the heat only sharpens my awareness of Kane’s marks on me, vivid bruises, red and purple bites stamped along my throat, my chest, possessive imprints I want to press deeper into my skin.
His ownership. His proof.
When I step out, steam clouds the mirror, and I swipe it clean.
My reflection mocks me, exhausted eyes rimmed red, dark circles speaking truths I refuse to say out loud.
The bruises pulse defiantly against my skin, whispering reminders of him, of what we did, of how I willingly begged for his cruelty, his touch, his darkness.
Then, suddenly, the realization hits me, brutal and relentless: I don’t smell like him anymore.
The emptiness punches through my chest, leaving me breathless, panic twisting sharply through my veins. I need him, his scent, his presence, the fucking taste of his skin on my tongue.
I bolt from the bathroom naked, racing across the room, nearly stumbling over myself, heart slamming violently against my ribs as I rip open Lena’s tote.
My breath comes in sharp, desperate gasps until my fingers finally close around Kane’s black T-shirt, worn and soft and saturated in his scent, dark, smoky, dangerously comforting.
I yank it over my head, letting it swallow me whole, sleeves falling past my elbows, the hem brushing my thighs.
My chest heaves, relief pouring through me as his scent wraps around my lungs like a possessive grip.
I tug his sweatpants up my hips, drowning in the enormous fabric, desperate to bury myself in any piece of him I took.
Collapsing onto the bed, I clutch at his clothes, inhaling deep, ragged breaths, craving the scent that lingers there, craving him. My eyes squeeze shut, but it’s useless. Kane invades every thought, every memory, every broken piece of my mind.
His voice floods back, rough and possessive, etched deep into my soul:
“You look fucking beautiful wearing me, Camille…so much better than diamonds.”
My chest clenches sharply, pain mingling brutally with longing as his words rip through me, unrelenting, vivid:
“I want your ugly. I want the broken parts. Your scars, the secrets you keep, I want your nightmares…I want to stand centered in your ugly and watch you realize I’m never leaving.”
I shift restlessly, grabbing a pillow to smother my face, trying desperately to silence him. But he’s everywhere, relentless, his words burning hot in my veins:
“I want under your skin, Camille. I want to live there. In every breath, every ache, every goddamn decision you make. You don’t walk away from this. Not from me.”
And then the worst, the memory that slices deep, a knife dragged slowly over exposed nerves:
“…because now I see you exactly how you are, pathetic, spineless, worthless. Empty. And you’re right… I’m beneath you, Camille, but not for the reason you think… I’d never lower myself to settle for a coward…”
A sob rips from my chest, raw and anguished. Because he’s right. Because I pushed him away, lied to his face, denied everything I felt. Too scared, too fucking weak to own the truth.
I’m in love with him.
Not tender, not sweet, nothing normal or safe about it. A love that’s jagged and ruthless, carved into my bones with razor blades, bleeding out through every regretful breath I take.
My heart breaks wide open in my chest, splintering under the weight of everything I destroyed, everything I threw away. And as tears soak into his clothes, my body shaking violently with grief and longing, I finally accept it:
I fucked up.
I hurt him.
And I might’ve just ruined the only real thing I’ve ever had.
***
The boutique smells like lavender and designer perfume, soft, sophisticated, expensive.
Music murmurs quietly beneath the delicate chatter, creating a gentle hum of meaningless background noise.
Chandeliers hang above us, throwing glittering prisms across ivory silk, pearl chiffon, and walls the exact color of quiet perfection.
My mother sits silently in the corner, legs crossed with effortless grace, her eyes assessing every detail like she’s already tallying points. Always judging, always appraising.
Clara stands on a raised platform in front of me, enveloped in a gown of satin and lace, the fabric pooling elegantly around her feet. Ivory perfection hugs her curves, luminous and soft, reflecting every ounce of hope in her eyes.
Everything I’m not.
She turns toward me slowly, nerves and excitement mingling in her gaze. “What do you think?” she asks softly.
“Stunning,” I breathe, my voice gentle and honest, my fingers smoothing the rich fabric carefully. “It’s perfect.”
She catches my eyes in the mirror, and her expression shifts slightly. A tender furrow forms between her brows, concern shadowing her happiness. “You okay, Cam?”
My hands pause, a brief hesitation betraying me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just seem…” She searches for the right word. “Off. Like you’re here, but your mind’s somewhere else.”
Two blocks away. At the Langford. With Kane.
I force a smile, meeting her reflection again. “Just busy. You know…Foundation stuff, Preston’s campaign.”
Her eyes soften knowingly, gentle disbelief written plainly across her delicate face. “Is that really all?”
My throat tightens. “Clara…”
She reaches down, gently touching my shoulder, urging me to stand. I rise slowly, reluctantly, casting a quick glance toward our mother, whose attention has shifted briefly toward her phone, oblivious for now.
“Can we talk privately?” Clara whispers, tilting her head toward the small room behind us. “Just a minute.”
“Sure,” I manage, my voice thin.
She carefully steps down from the pedestal, gathering the heavy skirts in her delicate hands, leading me into a secluded room in the back. Closing the door gently, she turns, her face open, vulnerable. It twists something deep inside me.
“You’re not okay, Camille,” she whispers softly, her voice apologetic, careful. “I’m not Lena, but I still know when something’s wrong.”
A brittle ache cracks inside my chest. My breath shudders slightly, the truth scraping at my throat, begging for release. “I’m just…tired.”
She takes another step forward. “Of pretending?”
The words hit sharply, piercing deep. “Maybe,” I admit quietly.
Her eyes study me, so damn gentle, so forgiving. Clara has always been softer, braver, unafraid to feel things openly, honestly. Things I could never let myself feel.
“Cam, whatever you’re hiding, whatever it is, it’s killing you,” she says carefully, but firmly. “I’ve watched you for weeks. You’re coming apart, and I’m scared.”