8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
C amille
“So, are we just gonna watch you mentally fuck your phone all night, or do you plan to rejoin us sometime soon?”
Lena’s words slash straight through the low-lit, leather-bound lounge.
Her dark eyes glitter, the flicker of candlelight making her winged eyeliner shimmer wickedly as she arches one perfectly sculpted brow.
Lena Wilder, wild blond curls cascading down her bare shoulders, flawless peaches and cream skin illuminated like an Instagram filter, knows exactly how to turn brutal honesty into an art form.
I shove my phone face-down on the table, rolling my eyes hard enough to bruise. “Dramatic much?”
“Bitch, always.” Lena smirks lazily, sipping her martini as she leans back, crossing toned legs wrapped in black leather pants so tight they could double as a second skin. “But I’m not wrong. You’re giving major ‘waiting-on-a-booty-call’ energy, and it’s honestly embarrassing.”
Noelle snickers loudly, nearly choking on her cosmopolitan. Petite and blonde, looking like she just stepped off a private jet from Saint-Tropez, she flicks a strand of silky hair behind her shoulder. “Seriously, Cami, if Preston’s playing fuckboy games, he needs to go. Immediately.”
I groan, grabbing my cocktail with a desperation that’s anything but subtle. “Guys, I swear…Preston’s not the problem.”
“No?” Lena’s voice is dripping with amused skepticism. “Then why are you so tragically moody? You’ve barely looked at your cocktail, you flinch every time your phone buzzes, and you haven’t laughed at any of my jokes, clearly, there’s a crisis.”
“Clearly,” Noelle agrees, nodding seriously. “She’s funnier when you’re sober, babe. It’s scary.”
“Rude,” Lena shoots back, lips twitching. “But accurate.”
“Can we not do this tonight?” I plead, swirling my straw aggressively through crushed ice. “We’re supposed to be having fun.”
“We are having fun,” Lena counters smoothly. “This is my fun. Bullying you into emotional honesty.”
I sigh dramatically, feigning boredom even as heat climbs steadily up my cheeks.
I glance around the lounge, filled with beautiful people talking in hushed voices, the bass-heavy beat beneath their conversations matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.
My phone stays stubbornly dark, Kane’s last message weeks old but still fresh enough to haunt every breath:
Dream of me, Princesa.
God, I hate him.
Almost as much as I want him.
Lena leans in again, relentless. “Okay, bitch, listen. I’ve known you since we were seventeen, drunk on stolen champagne at that godawful gala, hiding from your mom. You can lie to your Instagram followers, but you can’t lie to me.”
“My mom still hates you, you know,” I say dryly, desperately trying to derail the conversation.
“Shocker.” Lena rolls her eyes, unfazed. “My dad is a washed-up eighties drummer who still does coke off guitars, and my mom literally got famous for fucking on camera. I’m every bougie mother’s nightmare, especially yours.”
“But I love you anyway.” I smile sweetly, batting my lashes at her exaggeratedly.
“Nice try,” Lena scoffs. “But you’re still not off the hook. Is Preston finally locking it down, or are you about to have a midlife crisis at twenty-four?”
“Midlife?” Noelle wrinkles her nose, taking a sip of her drink. “God, is twenty-four considered midlife now? Kill me.”
“It is when you’re Camille Sinclair,” Lena quips, smirking wickedly. “She was born middle-aged.”
“Fuck off,” I laugh, finally relaxing enough to breathe. “Preston isn’t the issue. Things are…fine.”
“Fine?” Lena echoes, voice dripping disdain. “You realize that’s the least convincing word in the English language, right? Like, right up there with ‘I’ll pull out’ and ‘just the tip.’”
Noelle bursts into laughter, covering her mouth with a delicate hand as several people at nearby tables glance over. “Oh my God, Lena!”
“What?” Lena shrugs, smiling smugly. “I’m just saying, ‘fine’ doesn’t exactly scream passionate romance. Sounds more like you’re deciding between beige paint samples.”
“Maybe I like beige,” I mutter stubbornly, cheeks flaming.
“No, babe, you don’t,” Lena says decisively, eyeing me knowingly. “I’ve seen your lingerie drawer. Nothing beige there. It’s giving red-lace-and-regret vibes.”
“You’re impossible.” I roll my eyes again, desperately fighting off the grin tugging at my lips. Lena always saw straight through my bullshit. Always knew exactly how to peel back the polished, composed facade I’d spent my life perfecting.
“I know.” Lena smiles softly, eyes bright with genuine affection. “But you love me anyway. Now tell us why you’re eye-fucking your phone so hard, or I’ll assume it’s something scandalous and amazing.”
I bite my lip, stifling another smile, even as Kane’s dark eyes and whispered commands flash through my mind. What he’d done to me in his penthouse, what he’d done in the back of his Rolls Royce, still burned beneath my skin. Filthy. Unforgettable. And completely unshareable.
“It’s nothing scandalous,” I lie easily. “Just busy with…stuff.”
“Stuff,” Lena repeats, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Cam.”
Noelle taps her manicured nails impatiently on the tabletop. “Enough interrogation. New topic, please. I didn’t wear these heels tonight just to sit around psychoanalyzing Camille’s tragic love life.”
Lena huffs dramatically, flipping her wild curls back with a flourish. “Fine. Noelle, entertain us with your latest dating tragedy. Please tell me it’s even worse than the polo player who thought Gucci was a breed of dog.”
Noelle groans, slumping theatrically back against the booth. “You wish. This one wore a Patek Philippe watch, except it was fake and spelled ‘Philippe’ wrong. He said he bought it on a ‘business trip’ in Chinatown.”
Shoulders shaking, I nearly choke on my laughter, shoulders shaking as Lena’s head drops forward, a defeated sigh escaping her lips. “Truly tragic. Why do all your dates sound like bad Netflix shows?”
“Because my taste is worse than Camille’s right now,” Noelle says pointedly, wiggling her brows at me.
I lift my drink in a sarcastic toast. “Impossible. No one’s taste is worse than mine, remember? I’m beige and boring.”
“True story,” Lena agrees smugly, raising her glass. “To Camille, our favorite emotional disaster in designer heels.”
“Cheers,” Noelle giggles, clinking her glass against Lena’s.
“You guys suck,” I mutter, hiding a reluctant grin behind my cocktail glass.
“You love us.” Lena’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Besides, someone has to save you from turning into your mother.”
I shudder dramatically. “Low blow, Lena.”
“Necessary blow,” she counters, smiling unapologetically. “We’re not letting you lose yourself in some vanilla life where beige is considered spicy.”
Noelle leans closer, blue eyes twinkling wickedly. “Maybe Preston’s secretly kinky. Like, closet red room vibes. Or at least a dark grey room. Maybe he’s secretly edgy.”
I choke on my laugh. “The edgiest thing about Preston Caldwell is that he once wore a navy blazer instead of black to a fundraiser. My mother almost fainted.”
Lena snorts into her drink, shaking her head. “Girl, I’d die. Honestly, it’s tragic. Tell me again why we like Preston?”
“We don’t,” Noelle whispers conspiratorially. “We just pretend because Camille seems determined to like him.”
I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. Lena grins triumphantly, gesturing dramatically with her glass. “And that’s why you need us, babe. Someone has to be honest. Can you imagine spending your whole life pretending navy blazers are a personality?”
Noelle shivers dramatically. “Oh god, nightmare fuel.”
They laugh, and despite the ache in my chest, despite the dark, unread screen of my phone, I finally feel myself relaxing.
Lena always knows exactly how to distract me, how to ease the storm raging just beneath my carefully maintained exterior.
She’s always seen through me, past the Sinclair name, past my practiced smiles and carefully worded lies.
She just doesn’t know the truth tonight. Doesn’t know that the reason my pulse spikes each time my phone lights up isn’t Preston’s boring, predictable texts. It’s Kane’s silence, deafening and torturous.
“So,” Lena announces brightly, refilling her glass. “Enough of Camille’s sad beige romance. Let’s talk about mine. Because there isn’t one, and frankly, that’s unacceptable.”
I laugh softly, grateful for the reprieve, even if I know it’s temporary. “You realize your standards are impossible, right?”
“Nope,” Lena replies decisively. “I just need a man who’s taller than me in heels, has at least three tattoos, a real watch…Noelle, take notes, and can survive dinner with my mom.”
“Good luck,” Noelle says dryly. “Does this mythical creature also have a trust fund?”
“Preferably,” Lena deadpans. “But honestly, at this point, I’d settle for someone who doesn’t Snapchat me gym selfies and dick pics at midnight.”
I shake my head, smiling genuinely for the first time tonight. Lena’s chaos was exactly the distraction I needed. Exactly the kind of fierce loyalty and unapologetic honesty my life lacked everywhere else.
For tonight, maybe I can forget Kane Rivera and his haunting absence. Maybe I can just pretend to be the Camille Sinclair who has it all together, the Camille who isn’t still craving a man she knows will destroy her.
Kane
I stop at Diego’s before flying back to New York.
Not for safety. Not for quiet.
Because this place, this smaller, sharper-edged version of my own compound, is the only corner of hell that still feels like home. Where the ghosts don’t judge me for the blood on my hands, because every man here is drowning in his own sins.