14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
C amille
I barely clear his penthouse door before reality hits, sending me stumbling backward into the wall. My knees buckle beneath the weight of my betrayal, the ring slipping from my fingers to hit the marble floor with a sharp, echoing ping.
My breath rushes out in harsh, broken sobs, lungs seizing, air slicing like shards of glass down my throat. It hurts. God, it hurts, like my chest is splitting open, bones fracturing beneath the crushing pressure of everything I’ve just destroyed.
Sliding slowly down the cold, unforgiving wall until I’m curled into myself, shuddering violently on the polished, sterile floor of a hallway I don’t belong in. My fingers claw desperately at my chest, as if I can somehow tear out the raw ache of loss ripping its way through me.
Kane.
I see his eyes, dark, wounded, burning with hatred and betrayal, as clearly as if he’s still standing in front of me. I see the way he broke apart beneath my cruelty, how every carefully aimed word sank into him, puncturing him like bullets from my own mouth.
My stomach twists violently, bile rising sharply, stinging at the back of my throat. Tears spill hot and relentless down my face, blurring my vision until everything dissolves into a haze of regret and anguish.
What have I done?
I chose safety over him.
Chose emptiness over truth.
Chose a cold, empty cage over the heat, the violence, the terrifying intimacy of Kane Rivera.
I chose Preston’s sterile promises over the brutal honesty of the only man who ever truly saw me.
God, I chose wrong.
I chose wrong, and it’s too fucking late.
A raw, animalistic cry claws its way out of my throat, echoing down the hallway, the sound utterly desperate, utterly broken.
I curl into myself tighter, feeling the violent tremors that wrack my body, helpless against the waves of agony that crash through me again and again, relentless and unforgiving.
I never meant for him to matter this much. Never meant for him to become the air in my lungs, the pulse in my veins. But he did. God, he did.
And now?
Now, without Kane’s darkness, without his chaos, without the fierce, reckless truth he forced me to see, all I have left is a hollow ache, an emptiness so deep, so fucking painful, I don’t know how to keep breathing.
Because Kane didn’t just leave a mark on me, he shattered me completely. He stripped away every layer of carefully crafted lies and left me raw, vulnerable, alive. And then I used that life, that strength, to rip him apart in return.
My heart thrashes painfully against my ribs, as though trying to escape the wreckage I’ve made. I drag myself up on shaking legs, the hallway spinning around me, vision swimming with unshed tears, regret bitter and acidic in my mouth.
I force myself forward, but I can still feel him behind me, the phantom heat of his rage, his pain, his heartbreak. It clings to my skin, to my soul, an invisible stain I know I’ll never be able to scrub clean.
And as I stumble away from the destruction I’ve left behind, I realize the most brutal truth of all:
Without Kane Rivera, I’m not just empty.
I’m nothing at all.
***
The night air hits me hard, sharp and icy against my skin, making me shiver violently as I stagger out onto the pavement in front of the Langford.
My pulse still hammers wildly, a ragged drumbeat in my chest that refuses to settle.
Each breath feels like it’s tearing at the edges of my lungs, raw and agonizing.
I freeze as I spot the sleek black car waiting silently at the curb.
Kane.
A wave of fresh agony sweeps over me, making me sway on unsteady legs. He arranged this. Even after everything I said, everything I destroyed, he still arranged a safe ride home.
I choke back another wave of nausea as the driver’s side door opens, revealing Joaquin stepping quietly onto the sidewalk, his expression unreadable, professional, yet somehow shadowed by disappointment. By judgment.
Because Joaquin knows.
Of course, he knows.
“Miss Sinclair,” he greets me evenly, carefully neutral, but his dark eyes hold too much understanding, too much knowledge.
I hesitate, rooted to the spot, my entire body trembling uncontrollably. Going home right now feels impossible. Returning to that quiet, sterile mansion and facing the lies I chose over Kane, I can’t do it. Not yet.
Instead, I force the words from my throat, voice rough, almost unrecognizable. “Can you…can you please take me somewhere else?”
His eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but he nods without question, pulling open the back passenger door. “Of course. Where to?”
“Lena’s.” My voice shakes, breaking on her name, and I quickly give him the address. I slide into the backseat, the scent of leather and luxury wrapping around me like a cruel reminder, familiar and aching, impossibly him.
I reach for my phone, fingers trembling violently as I quickly type out a message to Lena.
I’m coming over.
I hit send before I can overthink, before I can explain…because how the hell do I explain this?
Joaquin pulls the car away smoothly, and the silence that fills the interior is suffocating, drowning me in all the words I’ve left unsaid. Every inch of this sleek, perfect car screams of Kane. His touch. His scent. His presence, lingering everywhere I look.
My phone vibrates softly in my palm, jolting me from my spiral. Lena’s reply flashes bright on the screen, warm, immediate—exactly like her.
Door’s open, wine’s poured. Come thru.
A strangled, aching sound catches in my throat, relief mixed with something sharper, something cutting deep inside my chest. Lena is safe. Lena is comfort. Lena will wrap me in soft blankets and even softer words, drowning out the violent echoes of what I just left behind.
But nothing can silence the thunderous pounding of my heart, the way it echoes Kane’s name like an accusation.
Every breath hurts, catching on his memory—the brutal tenderness of his touch, his mouth on my skin, the fury blazing in his eyes as I ripped myself away.
I close my eyes, teeth biting painfully into my bottom lip, fighting the sting of tears I refuse to let fall.
The city lights blur past the windows, neon and shadow spinning into a chaotic blur.
I swallow a strangled sob, pressing a shaking fist to my mouth, desperate to hold back the tears burning behind my eyes.
The agony builds, twisting like a blade inside my chest, until I’m barely breathing, barely holding myself together.
Each mile we drive toward Lena’s feels like another brutal, agonizing step away from him, away from the truth I chose to abandon. My skin crawls with regret, with shame, with a desperate longing I know I’ll never be able to outrun.
I close my eyes, body shaking violently as I force back the grief clawing up my throat and silently pray that Lena will somehow know how to pick up the shattered pieces of me when I finally collapse.
***
The car rolls to a stop outside Lena’s brownstone, sleek and familiar, elegant and safe, mocking me with every pristine line and polished brick. Joaquin doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn around. He sits patiently, waiting for me to decide if I’m brave enough, or cowardly enough, to step out of this car.
I grip the handle, fingers trembling, heart fracturing all over again. My throat burns, swollen from tears I can’t swallow down, and I force open the door, stepping onto the curb.
“Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely, unable to meet Joaquin’s eyes. Unable to face the questions, the quiet judgment in his careful silence.
He nods once, expression unreadable. “Be safe, Camille.”
The car pulls away gently, leaving me standing alone beneath a streetlight, cold air slicing into me like knives. Lena’s front door flies open immediately, spilling warm, golden light onto the sidewalk. And there she is, wild hair and wide, worried eyes. My best friend. My anchor. My refuge.
“Girl, what the actual fuck?” she blurts out, giving me a head-to-toe scan. “Who died? And why do you look like you just fled a murder scene?”
I open my mouth, but words choke and dissolve into a raw, miserable sound.
Lena rushes forward, wrapping me tight in her arms, holding me as I finally let myself break fully.
I shatter right there on her front steps, violent sobs ripping through my chest, shredding my lungs, cracking my ribs until I can barely breathe.
She doesn’t ask questions. Not yet. She just holds me tighter, her warmth seeping into my bones, her hands stroking gently through my hair, anchoring me when I have nothing left to hold onto.
“You’re okay,” she whispers fiercely, voice trembling softly, like my pain hurts her too. “I’ve got you babe, you’re okay now.”
But I’m not. And maybe I never will be again.
She guides me inside, locking the door behind us. I stagger blindly through her entryway and collapse onto her plush velvet couch, pulling my knees tight against my chest.
Lena settles deeper into the velvet couch, tucking one knee beneath her, eyes locked on mine like she’s about to binge-watch a new season of her favorite drama. The silence is thick but comforting, safe, until Lena’s patience finally shatters.
“Okay, bitch, enough,” she says bluntly, waving a manicured hand toward my oversized charcoal shirt and black Fear of God sweatpants rolled multiple times at the waist, still drooping low.
“You wanna explain why you’re out here dressed like the world’s saddest hypebeast?
And, like, no shade, but you smell expensive as fuck.
Bergamot, cedar, whiskey, sex. Definitely not oat milk Preston vibes. ”
A laugh chokes from my throat, bitter but genuine. “God, Lena, it’s bad. Like ‘burn-it-down-and-start-over-in-Mexico’ bad.”
Her eyes flash brighter, interest igniting immediately. “I’m fully invested. Who is he?”