10. Chapter Ten #4
“You’re stunning, Camille,” he murmurs, voice low, calm…
too calm. “You’re the kind of beautiful that silences a room.
Your face, your body…every detail so perfect it seems unreal.
” He offers a half-smile, eyes fixed on our joined hands.
“Do you know that every time my friends joke about hall passes, your name always comes up first? Every single time.”
My stomach twists uneasily, heat prickling up my neck. “Preston…”
“It’s flattering,” he interrupts, voice smoothly detached. “Men want you. Women envy you. It’s exactly what I need beside me. You’re the perfect trophy, Camille.”
His thumb stills, pressing lightly into the back of my hand. “But trophies can tarnish, can’t they?”
A chill races down my spine. I stare at him, heart pounding painfully against my ribs.
“I’m not blind, Camille.” His voice drops dangerously low, softening into something cruelly intimate, icy, controlled, almost gentle.
“I see the way Kane Rivera looks at you. Like he’s already had you.
Like he owns you. His hands always find reasons to touch you, like he’s daring me to notice.
” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
Every word lands with surgical precision, flaying me open from the inside out.
“And you…” He tilts his head slightly, grip tightening around my wrist until the ache blooms sharp. “You let him. Eyes all glassy, breath caught, like some desperate little slut starving for attention.”
His words slap harder than his hand ever could.
“Have you fucked him?”
My lungs seize, mouth opening but nothing comes out. “Preston…” It’s barely a breath, but it’s all I can manage.
He leans in, tone turning almost conversational, as if we’re discussing the weather.
“I’m not upset,” he says smoothly. “We’ve both strayed.
I’ve had Ivy, several times. You’ve clearly had…
needs.” A pause, deliberate. Measured. “But once we marry…” His voice drops lower, each word punctuated clearly, mercilessly precise.
“once you’re my wife, that stops. Kane stops. The fucking games stop.”
His fingers tighten, grinding bone to bone until pain surges up my arm, viciously bright. I gasp softly, instinctively twisting to break free. But he only holds tighter, dragging me back, the gesture harsh and quiet, hidden beneath false politeness.
“I won’t be humiliated,” he whispers, each word delivered like a promise carved in stone. “You will smile when cameras flash. You will hold my hand at every gala. And you will never let another man put his hands on you again. Am I clear?”
“Preston, please...” I whisper, my voice cracking on the plea. “You’re hurting me.”
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear, voice empty of mercy. “Answer me, Camille.”
A quiet sob twists painfully in my throat. I don’t fight his hold anymore. “Yes,” I breathe, voice fractured, raw. “You’re clear.”
He finally loosens his grip, though his fingers linger, tracing the reddened skin tenderly. His gaze softens abruptly, as if he hadn’t just fractured something between us irrevocably.
“You asked if I love you,” he murmurs, almost as an afterthought, eyes drifting over my face. “People like us don’t marry for love. We marry for power. For advantage.” He smiles faintly, bitter and hollow. “Love complicates things. Passion fades. Power…now that lasts.”
I pull my hand back slowly, the ache throbbing painfully where his fingers had pressed too deeply. Preston lifts his glass, takes a casual sip, and resumes the conversation he was having before, as if we hadn’t just stripped ourselves raw, revealing the ugly truth beneath our perfect facade.
And sitting there, staring numbly at my plate, I realize exactly what this marriage will be, a beautiful cage, meticulously constructed. One I willingly stepped into.
But something stirs inside me, something stubborn and restless, a whisper of defiance. My heart speeds as I meet Preston’s indifferent gaze.
“What if I can’t?” I ask quietly. My voice shakes, but I push through. “What if I can’t pretend?”
His eyes flicker with something dark, dangerous. “Pretend?” he repeats carefully, setting his glass down with deliberate grace.
“Pretend to be happy,” I say, each word forcing its way past trembling lips. “Pretend not to feel…”
“Feelings,” Preston interrupts coolly, “are luxuries we can’t afford.” His eyes bore into mine, calculating, ruthless. “You’ve always known that. Happiness is a bonus, Camille. Not a requirement.”
The restaurant around us buzzes softly, oblivious to the silent war playing out at our table. Preston leans forward again, voice dropping dangerously low. “I chose you because you’re strong enough to understand what’s required. Do not disappoint me now.”
My chest heaves painfully. “What if I already have?”
He studies me closely, cold fury hidden beneath practiced composure. “Then you’d better learn quickly how to fix it. Because our families don’t tolerate failure. Neither do I.”
His words land like blows, deliberate and bruising. My lungs squeeze tight, a suffocating weight pressing down as reality sinks deeper into my bones.
“Is that a threat?” I manage, voice thin.
“No,” Preston says, expression softening into something disturbingly gentle. “It’s simply the truth, Camille. The truth you asked for.”
His eyes linger on me a second longer, unreadable but heavy with quiet warning. Then he calmly picks up his fork, returning to his meal as though nothing at all has happened. As though he hasn’t just stripped every last illusion away from our future.
I sit there, shattered, understanding finally and fully that this perfect facade we’ve built isn’t merely fragile.
It’s already broken.
***
I don’t remember leaving the restaurant.
I don’t remember the drive home, the blurred streetlights flashing past, or stepping out onto the pavement. Everything after Preston’s quiet, cutting truths fade into a foggy nothingness, the numbness spreading deeper, blanketing me like a heavy, suffocating weight.
The next clear moment comes when I’m standing beneath the shower, the scalding water beating relentlessly down my back.
I don’t feel it. Or maybe I do, but not enough, not nearly enough.
It should hurt more. It should leave marks, blister my skin, make me feel something, anything other than the empty hollowness expanding inside my chest.
When I finally step out, my skin is flushed raw, angry pink streaks tracing along my ribs. But it’s nothing compared to the marks Preston’s words left beneath the surface, invisible but permanent.
Numbly, I dress, barely registering the soft lace of the red bralette as it slides over my damp skin, the delicate shorts following suit. A cruel joke, this pretty lingerie, pretending there’s something romantic left in the wreckage of tonight.
There isn’t.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring down at my manicured feet as they hover just above the hardwood. They’re painted a shade of nude so flawless, so neutral, it hurts. Exactly like Preston wants me, perfect, polished, unobtrusive. A quiet, beautiful ghost of a wife.
My eyes blur, throat tightening painfully. I touch my wrist gently, wincing as my fingertips brush the tender skin where he squeezed too hard. Already, faint bruises are forming, shadows rising to the surface, a promise of what he’s capable of when pushed too far.
The conversation replays in my head is uninvited, relentless. His voice, cold and smooth as steel, casually brutal as he outlined exactly what I am—nothing but a trophy. Pretty, delicate, breakable.
Disposable.
My stomach clenches painfully. Is this what my life is now? Smiles and silences, bruises hidden beneath diamond bracelets and silk sleeves? Will he ever cross that invisible line? Will there come a day when bruises aren’t enough, when my subtle rebellions finally snap something deeper inside him?
I swallow hard, unable to silence the whispered dread inside my mind.
And inevitably, like gravity pulling me back into orbit, my thoughts slip quietly to Kane.
The man who devoured me like he was fucking starving.
The man who made me beg…shamelessly, desperately…for things I never thought I’d crave.
The man who infiltrated every corner of my life as if it belonged to him, claiming spaces I never meant to surrender.
The man who overheard my darkest secret, forced me to look him in the eyes and confirm every ugly, twisted detail.
Douglas.
He knows about Douglas.
He promised me vengeance. Promised me blood and justice and retribution, even as I pleaded with him not to. But I wasn’t na?ve enough to think my words would ever truly stop him.
And then…he vanished.
Three weeks of crushing, ruthless silence.
Three weeks of stone-faced assistants and carefully constructed walls. Locked boardrooms. Urgent emails marked in red ink with the phrase that made my blood boil:
Pending approval from Mr. Rivera.
He’s stripped away every scrap of my control, invaded my foundation, my business, my fucking sanity. I can’t even take a breath without his signature.
And the worst part…the most twisted, cruel part…isn’t the power he wields.
It’s that he refuses to use it.
Because if Kane walked into my office tomorrow, arrogant and untouchable, flashing that infuriating smirk, holding out that goddamn pen like a challenge, at least I could fight him. I could scream, shove back, demand answers.
I could hate him properly.
Instead, I’m left chasing shadows. Silence. Cold. Calculated. Fucking cruel. His ghost haunts every breath.
I shove my phone across the bed. It skids, crashing to the floor, and I flinch at the sound.
I tuck my knees to my chest, hugging myself tight, as if I can make myself small enough to avoid the ache.
My teeth sink into my lip, sharp enough to produce blood.
Because I shouldn’t miss him.
I shouldn’t care where he is. Who he’s with.