6. Chapter Six #4
Before I can second-guess myself, I swipe up and turn on Do Not Disturb. Because if I don’t, I know that arrogant bastard will keep going. He always does. Kane knows exactly which buttons to push, and like a fucking idiot, I let him.
I played right into his hands.
I let him get under my skin.
Again.
My stomach knots, shame and need wars inside me as I toss my phone onto the nightstand, shoving my hands through my hair.
I need to stop this before he drives me completely insane.
I turn my phone face down and step away from it like it might bite me. My pulse still thrums in my ears, my skin still feels too hot, my legs still feel weak.
I press a hand to my stomach, inhaling deeply, trying to steady myself. This is over. I won’t let him get to me again.
I won’t.
I slip into bed, flipping off the lamp, yanking the covers over me like they can shield me from the way Kane still lingers, on my skin, in my head, in the aching pulse between my thighs.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m going to be engaged soon. I have a future. A plan.
And Kane Rivera has no place in it.
I repeat that to myself like a mantra, forcing my body to relax.
But as exhaustion pulls me under, my last conscious thought is the feel of his hands on me, the way he whispered my name against my skin.
I dream of him.
Kane
I don’t expect her to answer.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.
I exhale a slow chuckle, setting my phone down, rolling my wrist as I pace my penthouse.
She’s unraveling.
She thinks if she ignores me, if she shoves me away hard enough, she’ll be able to go back to the life she had before. That she’ll be able to scrub me out of her mind like a bad fucking habit.
She’s wrong.
Because Camille Sinclair was never meant for a life of perfection. Never meant for a man like Preston Caldwell, with his clean-cut image and carefully curated future.
She was made for something darker.
Something real.
Something that only I can give her.
I could let her have this night.
Let her convince herself she’s in control.
But where’s the fun in that?
I grab my phone, smirking to myself as I type.
Dream of me, Princesa.
I send it.
And then, finally, I let her sleep.
For now.
I lift the glass to my lips, still tasting her on my tongue, when the phone buzzes again.
Not her.
She’s shut me out for the night.
Locked herself in her ivory tower, stewing in silence, fists clenched, thighs tighter, replaying every word, every thrust, every time I dragged the truth out of her body and made her feel alive.
Camille
The scent of fresh espresso lingers in the air in the bright, clean, familiar midtown offices of the New York- Sinclair Foundation Headquarters. The kind of thing that usually calms me.
Today, it doesn’t.
I stand at the wall of glass in the boardroom, arms crossed, watching the city crawl beneath me, fast, loud and too alive. Everyone down there is moving. Living. And I’m here, staring at my own reflection in the glass, wondering how I missed the noose tightening around my neck.
“Camille?” I turn. Nina. My assistant. Tablet in hand. Flustered in a way she never is, her mouth tight and eyes darting like someone’s already screamed at her today.
“What is it?”
“It’s the scholarship fund,” she says. “The disbursement’s been flagged.”
I blink. “What do you mean flagged?”
“Your approval didn’t go through.” Her voice lowers. “New clearance protocol was added this morning. System locked. It’s rerouting through secondary authorization.” I walk toward her, heels biting into the floor.
“Who authorized the change?”
She hesitates, swallows. “Rivera Holdings.”
I stop. Like someone yanked my spine backward.
Rivera Holdings. The words land like a punch to the ribs.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. My body goes still the way it does right before I shatter, every breath shallow, barely there.
I stare at Nina. “Repeat that,” I say, but my voice isn’t mine anymore. It’s thinner. Frayed.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Rivera Holdings. The new strategic partner. They’ve implemented a secondary authorization for all disbursement over twenty-five thousand. It’s already live. Auto-triggered at 7:00 a.m.”
I take the tablet from her slowly, fingers cold.
There it is, my name next to a denied request. The status changed in real time.
My signature voided beneath a newer one.
One that doesn’t belong in this building, let alone in this part of my life.
Kane Rivera. There’s a new digital watermark beneath the funds allocation system.
Rivera Holdings. A logo where mine used to be.
He’s in it. Buried in the backend of everything I built.
Not hovering.
Not haunting.
Embedded.
Like a tick you didn’t feel latch on until it was already draining the blood out of you.
I can’t breathe.
I grip the tablet tighter, fingers shaking as I scroll through line after line of transaction requests.
Blocked.
Denied.
Under Review.
All flagged under the same note: Awaiting Rivera Holdings approval.
My approvals used to be absolute. No delays. No second-guessing. I fought for that, built a world where my name meant something beyond cocktail dresses and curated smiles. Now my voice isn’t even a whisper in the system I created.
“Camille?” Nina says quietly. She steps forward, eyes worried, because I must look exactly how I feel.
Betrayed.
Stripped bare.
Gutted.
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice sounds foreign. Harsh and tight, on the verge of something too sharp to hold back. “I’ll fix this.”
But her face tells me she knows that’s a lie. You don’t fix a coup. You survive it.
She nods once, understanding enough to step away. “Let me know if…if you need anything.”
She leaves, the soft click of the door behind her sounding more like the slide of a lock being turned. Trapping me.
I stand frozen in the middle of the boardroom, alone in the silence, staring down at his name etched in digital ink beneath mine. It mocks me, bold and unapologetic.
Rivera Holdings.
Kane Rivera.
He didn’t just insert himself into my foundation. He stole my authority. He reached inside the heart of everything I built and ripped out its pulse.
He took control .
It’s not just an intrusion, it’s possession. He’s dug his claws into every layer of my world, every transaction now routed through his hands. Every decision I make will have his fingerprints all over it, his eyes always watching from somewhere I can’t see.
He’s going to make me beg.
I close my eyes, nausea churning deep. Not from what he’s done, but because part of me already knows what comes next.
Confrontation.
I can’t let this stand. I can’t let him own me like this. But walking into his territory again, facing him, feels like walking willingly into the lion’s den, blood already dripping from open wounds.
But what choice do I have?
Either I surrender quietly, or I confront the wolf now occupying my world.
And I know, that’s exactly what he wants.
He wants me angry.
Wants me desperate.
Wants me broken and bleeding at his feet.
Fuck him.
I will not give him what he wants.
Instead, I avoid him for six days, thirteen hours, and, if we’re being exact, twenty-two minutes.
But I feel him. In the air. In the building. In the silence between emails. His presence hangs like static, always there, always charged, always one wrong breath away from striking. So, I bury myself in work.
I stop going out. Stop answering Preston’s texts unless I absolutely have to. I cancel every non-essential meeting and lock myself in my office long after everyone else has gone home.
And I work.
I pour every ounce of rage, shame, and humiliation into rebuilding my Foundation proposal, drafting a counter-strategy that undercuts Kane’s heartless, corporate “restructure” line by line.
I cite retention rates, partner testimonials, community case studies.
I even call directors on the ground for updated numbers and quotes, just to remind myself what the hell I’m fighting for.
I’m not a doll.
I’m not a board seat.
And I am not a woman who gets silenced by a man just because he got inside me.
Even if a part of me still burns when I think about the way he touched me. Even if I wake up some nights with my hand between my thighs, chasing something I can’t name.
I shut that part down.
Hard.
This proposal? This is my war cry. So when the calendar invite comes through, I don’t flinch.
Subject: Sinclair Foundation – Strategic Follow-Up Time: Thursday, 12:00 p.m. Location: Board Room 16B
Sent by his assistant. Not him.
Of course.
I accept. Not because I want to see him. Not because I’m ready.
Because I have to.
Because if I don’t stand my ground now, he’ll bulldoze everything I’ve built and call it “efficiency.”
The next morning, another update hits my inbox:
Location Change: Le Jardin, 4:30 p.m. – Private Room Dress code enforced. Confidential lunch.
I roll my eyes so hard my vision blurs.
Of course! Kane wants a meeting at Le Jardin. New York’s most exclusive five-table, don’t-even-think-about-walking-in-without-a-reservation spot. The kind of place where senators sip bourbon and CEOs ink backroom deals.
It’s a power play disguised as a lunch reservation.
Classic Kane Rivera.
I don’t RSVP.
I don’t need to.
He’ll expect me to show.
And I would have.
Until the call comes in. My phone rang late morning and Marcy, the director of Haven House, sounded like she’d been crying.
“There was a pipe burst,” she said. “The ceiling’s falling down. Camille, we have nowhere else to put them…”
I didn’t let her finish. I got dressed in a daze, grabbed my coat, and told my driver to hurry.
Now I’m here, standing in front of the old brick townhouse that’s held together by love and sheer desperation. Rain pours relentlessly from the sky, soaking my clothes, making the thin silk blouse cling to my skin, chilling me straight to the bone.