14. Chapter Fourteen #3
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, slightly dizzy and way too comfortable.
“He’s…unfairly attractive. Dark hair, ink everywhere, eyes that look like they could ruin your entire life.
Ridiculously tall. He wears suits like they offend him, but you know there’s muscle underneath. Like, disrespectfully hot.”
Lena whistles lowly. “Damn. So, basically your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” I protest weakly.
She snorts loudly, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Bitch, your entire type is literally ‘tall, toxic, emotionally unavailable, and capable of destroying your entire life.’ Tell me I’m wrong.”
I tilt my head, glaring weakly at her smug face. “I hate you so much right now.”
“Because I’m right,” she grins, nudging me playfully with her foot. “Alright, so he’s criminally hot, obviously, but how good are we talking exactly?”
I groan, embarrassment scorching my skin all over again. “Lena, haven’t I suffered enough tonight?”
“Bitch, absolutely fucking not,” she says bluntly, leaning closer, eyes glittering with mischief.
“It’s hard out here for us single hoes, so if my bestie aka you is getting fucked senseless by a tattooed billionaire daddy, you owe me explicit details.
Now quit stalling. Did he choke you? Praise kink? Mirror sex? I need specifics, Cam.”
I turn my head toward her with a curious frown. “Wait, pause…what the hell is praise kink?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, ticking examples off on her fingers. “‘You’re so fucking good at that. You know exactly how I like it. Your mouth, your ass, your tits, they’re perfect. And my personal favorite, “You’re such a good girl.”
“Huh...” I murmur quietly, staring back up at the ceiling. “I think I just learned something new about myself.”
“Please share with the class.”
I bite down on my lip, heat burning my cheeks as I avoid her eager stare. “It’s nothing…just...he may have called me that a few times.”
She grabs my arm, a Cheshire grin on her face, hazel eyes wide and delighted. “Oh my god, Cami, baby, I genuinely, wholeheartedly love this for you.” She smirks wickedly, leaning even closer. “Hits every time, doesn’t it?”
I groan softly, covering my face. “Every fucking time.”
We both burst out laughing, the weed making us giggly, warm, and blissfully reckless.
I close my eyes, a memory surfacing before I can stop it. “He told me to sit on his face and called it my throne.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then Lena shrieks so loudly I’m surprised the neighbors don’t call the cops, popcorn flying everywhere. “Bitch, excuse me? ‘Sit on your throne’? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
I bury my face in my hands again, giggling uncontrollably. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No,” Lena gasps, clutching her chest dramatically. “You absolutely should’ve. Queen shit, Camille! Honestly, I’d be proposing marriage after that. No wonder you’re traumatized.”
I burst into laughter, my ribs aching in the best way, the weed loosening my embarrassment and the ache of missing Kane. Lena shakes her head in disbelief, taking another hit before waving the joint like it’s a pointer.
“Seriously, you had your own goddamn throne and still walked away for Mr. Oat Milk Latte?” She sighs dramatically, staring at the ceiling. “I raised you better than this.”
I laugh harder, wiping tears from my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she retorts, grinning proudly, “I’m still not the one fumbling bag-of-the-century dick.”
I groan loudly, flopping onto my back, covering my burning face with both hands. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Lena says cheerfully, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth and eyeing me smugly. “I’m going to bring it up at your wedding, your baby shower, and probably my speech at your funeral.”
“Lena!”
“I’m kidding. Sort of.” She shrugs lightly, nudging me with her foot. “Honestly, Cam, if this man is giving throne-level oral I get why you’re spiraling. Your life is officially divided into pre-throne and post-throne.”
I laugh again, lighter now, the tension in my chest easing with every ridiculous word she says. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” Lena counters smugly, stretching out lazily on the plush carpet and yawning dramatically. “But for real…give it a few days. Let him cool off.”
“Hmm.” I don’t have words, so I sigh softly.
We lie there quietly, the room warm and hazy around us, the ache in my heart temporarily softened by laughter and Lena’s unshakeable certainty. I close my eyes, holding onto that feeling, safe, comforted, hopeful.
Then Lena nudges me again, her voice low and teasing. “But, Cam, seriously if you ever fumble throne-level dick again, I’m staging an intervention.”
And as we dissolve into laughter once more, tangled up on her soft rug, I know for certain I might be a complete disaster, but with Lena at my side, at least I’ll never be alone.
***
Lena’s sleek black Range Rover gleams under the soft streetlights as we step outside, the city quiet around us, oblivious to the chaos tearing me apart. Sliding into the buttery leather seat feels surreal, like stepping from one world straight into another.
Reality is waiting, and I don’t know if I’m ready.
Lena hits a button, the engine hums smoothly to life. She eyes me from the driver’s seat, perfectly manicured nails tapping the wheel impatiently.
“Buckle up, Cinderella. Your pumpkin awaits.”
I let out a weak, humorless laugh, clicking the seatbelt into place. “Pretty sure Cinderella didn’t torch her life for morally questionable dick.”
Lena snorts, pulling smoothly onto the street. “And that’s exactly why no one cares about Cinderella’s basic ass anymore. Get on your villain era, babe…it’s way more interesting.”
We glide quietly through Manhattan, neon lights streaking past in blurred waves. My reflection stares back at me, a ghostly, mascara-streaked disaster.
“How bad is it?” I whisper, pulling Lena’s hoodie tighter around me, inhaling the familiar scent of Chanel, laundry detergent, and home.
She glances over, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Like you just got fucked spectacularly and had your heart ripped out simultaneously. So basically, iconic disaster energy.”
“God,” I groan, tipping my head back. “They’re going to murder me.”
“Probably,” Lena says cheerfully. “Or maybe they’ll just exile you to the Hamptons. Worse things have happened.”
“I think it might be too late for that,” I say, voice bitter and hollow.
Her gaze softens, flicking toward me. “Cam, listen. Fuck your parents. Fuck Preston. Fuck all the expectations you never signed up for. You made a choice. Maybe it was messy and impulsive, but at least it was yours.”
“You’re annoyingly insightful,” I mumble.
She smirks. “It’s my superpower.”
We fall silent for a moment, streets rushing by in blurred streaks of neon, reality looming closer. Lena breaks it quietly.
“So what now?”
My voice feels small. “I don’t know. Go back to my cage. Pretend everything’s normal. Hope to God Preston never finds out.”
Lena snorts softly. “Yeah, right. Like you can put this shit back in the box.”
“I have to try,” I whisper. “Or my parents…”
“Will do what? Disown you? Girl, please.” Lena rolls her eyes dramatically. “They’ll threaten, but they need you way more than you need them. And Preston? You’re a trophy, Cam. Not a person. Don’t kid yourself.”
My chest tightens painfully. “I wish it was that easy.”
She shrugs again, smoothly navigating the Range Rover through the gates of my family’s estate. “It never is. That’s what makes life messy. And interesting.”
The manor looms ahead, imposing, immaculate, everything about it screams expectation, pressure, suffocation.
Everything I’m supposed to be.
Lena stops in front of the massive front doors, turning to face me fully, eyes gentle. “You gonna be okay?”
I look at her, my heart aching, my body exhausted, my soul raw. “Honestly? No.”
Her expression softens. “But you will be.”
I swallow hard, nodding slowly. “I hope so.”
She squeezes my hand tightly. “Remember who you are, Camille. And who you’re not.”
“I’ll try.”
I step out of the car, legs shaking beneath me, heart hammering violently in my chest. Lena’s window slides down, her voice drifting gently out into the darkness.
“And, Cam?”
I glance back, swallowing thickly. “Yeah?”
She grins mischievously. “Next time you decide to blow your life up, maybe invite me along? Your life’s way more entertaining than mine.”
I choke out a soft laugh, wiping tears away. “Deal.”
She gives a wave, elegant nails glinting under the porch lights. “Good luck, bitch. Call me after the meltdown.”
The window slides back up, and I watch her sleek SUV glide away, taillights fading down the driveway, leaving me standing alone outside Sinclair Manor.
My prison. My home.
But as I walk toward the heavy double doors, my fingers gripping tight around the tote Lena gave me for Kane’s clothes, I know it deep in my bones, this isn’t home anymore.
Home is cedar and bergamot and whiskey-soaked kisses. It’s tattooed skin pressed roughly against mine. It’s dark, possessive eyes burning right through me.
Home is Kane Rivera murmuring filthy promises in my ear, making me feel alive, reckless, ruined.
And no matter how hard I try to run, how desperately I fight the pull, I already know it’s useless.
Sooner or later, I’ll run straight back into the flames.
***
The air inside the grand foyer feels too thick, suffocating with the oppressive weight of expectation.
My mother stands rigid, eyes sharp as cut glass, her anger shimmering beneath a flawless veneer.
My father, ever calculating, watches me with narrowed eyes that assess damage, measure liabilities, and calculate the cost of my indiscretion.
My sneakers, Lena’s sneakers, mismatched against the marble floors and polished perfection, squeak slightly as I approach. Mother’s lips curl in disdain.