14. Chapter Fourteen #5
My eyes burn with the threat of tears. I press my hand to my mouth, trapping the truth before it spills, raw and unfiltered, into this fragile moment.
She steps closer, her hands capturing mine. Warm. Steady. Grounding me. “You don’t always have to carry everything alone. Not even you.”
A sob tries to break free, strangling my voice as I whisper, finally honest, “What if everything I’ve built, everything I’ve become is all for the wrong reasons?”
She squeezes my fingers gently, unflinching. “Then maybe it’s time to build something else. Something real.”
“I don’t know how,” I whisper, my voice breaking beneath the weight of the truth. “It’s not that simple. Mom, Dad, Preston…they all expect things. I have expectations. I always meet them.”
She steps even closer, soft but relentless. “And are you happy?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not even close.”
Her grip tightens, loving but determined. “I see you, Camille. Behind the perfect image, the fake smiles, the flawless surface. You’re exhausted. You’re breaking.”
My chest aches so sharply it steals my breath, and tears finally spill, hot and silent. “I feel trapped, Clara.”
Gently, she lifts a hand, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I’m your sister. I love you…no matter what. Whatever you choose, whoever you choose, I’m here. Always.”
I grip her fingers desperately afraid she’ll disappear if I loosen my hold. “What if I disappoint everyone?”
“What if you finally set yourself free?” Her voice is a quiet challenge. “You can’t keep drowning yourself just so everyone else stays comfortable.”
We stand in silence, her words digging deep, resonating painfully, beautifully.
“I’m terrified,” I whisper finally.
She smiles softly, eyes shining with tender understanding. “Good. That means you’re finally being honest.”
A soft knock interrupts the fragile moment. The boutique assistant peers in apologetically. “Ready for final measurements?”
Clara squeezes my hand again, gentle strength flowing into me. “Are we?”
I nod slowly, wiping the remaining tears away. “Yeah. We’re ready.”
She starts toward the door but pauses, looking back with piercing sincerity. “Promise me something, Cam?”
“What?”
“Remember your life is yours,” she whispers fiercely. “Only yours. Screw everyone else.”
Her words ache beautifully in my chest, scary and freeing all at once. “I’ll try.”
She smiles softly, full of quiet hope. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Taking a breath, I follow my sister back into the perfect facade, leaving the messy truth tucked safely in the shadows behind us.
***
The dining room is all gleam and crystal.
Preston’s mother is talking about flatware. Rose gold versus antique silver. I’m nodding politely, lips fixed in a smile I haven’t meant in weeks. My dress is crepe. My posture is perfect. My fork is untouched beside a plate of food I can’t look at without feeling sick.
They’re all talking around me, Preston, his parents, some family friend wearing a tie that costs more than rent in most boroughs, but I’m not listening to a single word.
Because I’m not here.
I’m still in Kane’s penthouse.
Still tied to his bed. Still aching from the weight of his hands on my throat and the filth in his mouth when he told me I was his. Still sore between my thighs where he split me open, whispering things no diamond ring could ever drown out.
The glass in my hand is sweating. My palms are damp.
And then, my phone vibrates on the table.
Once.
Twice.
A soft little buzz against linen, a ghost of a sound, but I feel it like a slap.
My heart seizes.
I turn it over.
Kane
No message preview. No words. Just the name.
I shouldn’t look.
I shouldn’t touch it.
But I do.
I unlock the screen and tap the notification, and my breath leaves my body like a gut punch.
Three images.
They take a second to load. Long enough for my stomach to drop, long enough for my heart to pound against my ribcage like it wants out.
They explode onto the screen, obscene and brutal, forcing every ounce of air from my lungs.
Me, bound to Kane’s bed with black leather belts, wrists tied tightly above my head, legs spread wide, shamelessly exposed. Naked, flushed, dripping wet and aching, the filthiest version of myself laid bare beneath his merciless stare.
My heart slams violently against my ribs, my blood roars in my ears as heat floods my cheeks. Humiliation and longing swirling painfully together. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop the phone onto the gleaming linen tablecloth.
He didn’t just capture me, he fucking destroyed me.
Every vulnerability, every secret need he’d ruthlessly exposed.
The next image zooms closer, and my stomach twists, breath hitching painfully as I stare at the close-up of his strong, tattooed hand pressed possessively against my soaked pussy, fingers spreading me wide, claiming me in the most primal way possible.
My body betrays me, heat pooling low, a vicious ache spreading between my thighs. I’m dizzy, heart hammering, fighting desperately for air in this perfectly polished room full of crystal glasses and meaningless conversations.
I shouldn’t keep looking.
But then the screen flickers, shifting to a single message. A video.
My throat tightens in panic. My thumb moves before my mind can catch up, the video opening silently. I mute the sound. But I already know the words, I know exactly what he recorded, exactly what he’s throwing back at me now.
My face appears, flushed, eyes glazed with desperate tears, lips swollen from his ruthless kisses. My voice fills the tiny speaker, cracked, begging, pathetic and completely real:
“Because only you can make me wet,” I gasp out in the video, voice shuddering, breaking beneath the humiliation, need, and absolute truth. “Only you make me come. You…you own all my orgasms…”
I nearly choke on the sudden wave of nausea, shame and longing colliding violently within me. My pulse throbs hot and frantic beneath my skin, blood rushing to my head.
“Camille?” Preston’s voice slices through the noise, distant and confused, wrenching me sharply back to reality. “Are you alright?”
The dining room snaps into sharp focus, the gleaming crystal, the heavy silver flatware, the expensive linens, Preston’s mother watching me curiously, his father’s brow furrowed with polite concern.
“I…I’m sorry,” I whisper shakily, lowering the phone to my lap, screen pressed tightly against my thigh. “Excuse me. I just…need to use the ladies room.”
I push my chair back abruptly, ignoring the startled murmurs, ignoring the questions, barely feeling the plush carpet beneath my heels as I rush from the room. My breath comes in short, painful bursts as I stumble blindly toward the empty hallway, desperate for air, for silence, for escape.
But there is no escape.
Because I ran from him, lied to him, shoved him away with words meant to cut, and Kane is making sure I feel every single piece of damage.
My phone vibrates again, cruel and persistent. Another message. Short. Ruthless:
That video is the only honest thing you’ve ever said in your entire goddamn life. That’s your truth. And it belongs to me.
My stomach twists violently, a sickening wave crashing through me as Kane’s message burns itself into my veins, deep, ruthless, undeniable.
I stumble deeper into the empty hallway, shoulder hitting the marble wall as my legs threaten to collapse beneath me. Kane’s words echo mercilessly through my skull, stripping away every carefully constructed lie I’ve clung to:
That’s your truth. And it belongs to me.
“Camille.”
My spine snaps straight, every nerve ending flaring in sudden panic at Preston’s voice, cold, sharp, mocking. I spin around, pulse slamming against my throat.
Preston moves toward me slowly, hands casually tucked into his pockets, head tilted slightly as if studying something mildly interesting. But I see it, the tightly coiled anger lurking just beneath his polished facade.
He stops inches away, crowding me against the wall, his voice sliding out like ice. “You constantly running off for some fucking air is getting exhausting, sweetheart.” He leans closer, breath ghosting cruelly over my cheek. “Are you suffocating, or is it guilt?”
I swallow painfully, heart pounding wildly as I try to retreat, but the marble at my back traps me. He notices my panic, eyes narrowing dangerously.
His gaze snaps sharply down to my phone, still trembling in my hand. “Was it him?” Preston’s voice is low, deadly quiet. “Was it Kane?”
I freeze, words choking in my mouth. My silence is louder than any confession.
A muscle twitches in his jaw, fury sparking hot in his eyes. He lunges suddenly, snatching the phone from my fingers so roughly it leaves my palm stinging. Fear spikes, my panic instinctive, desperate.
“Give it back,” I snap, lunging forward to reclaim it. But he raises it higher, just out of reach, gaze brutal and unforgiving.
“Unlock it,” he orders coldly.
“No,” I whisper fiercely, voice shaking, dread pooling in my gut.
“I said unlock the goddamn phone, Camille.” His tone is sharp, lethal, edged with a chilling calm that makes my skin crawl.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, but I hold his gaze, defiant despite the tears prickling my eyes. Seconds pass between us like lifetimes…heavy, charged with threats. Finally, something snaps behind his carefully controlled eyes, something cold and brutal.
Without another word, he hurls the phone viciously against the marble floor. It explodes instantly, screen shattering, scattering jagged shards across the pristine tiles. The sound echoes, loud and brutal, punctuating my sudden intake of breath, a strangled sob catching painfully in my chest.
Preston steps closer, boxing me in, his eyes empty, detached, utterly void of warmth. His voice is silk and razor blades, grazing my skin like a threat.
“There. No more distractions.” He leans closer, his breath a bitter whisper against my jaw. “I think you’ve had enough fucking air, sweetheart.”
My throat tightens, humiliation flooding through me, anger helplessly simmering beneath my skin. Preston straightens, tugging his cuffs casually, his face shifting back into its mask of bored indifference. As if breaking me was nothing more than a brief inconvenience.
“Stop being rude,” he murmurs, stepping back, cold eyes sweeping over me dismissively. “My parents are waiting.”
He turns sharply, footsteps echoing down the hall as he walks away, leaving me shaking, breathless, and drowning in shame.
I stare numbly at the shattered phone, the fragments glittering mockingly under the soft hallway lights. My vision blurs, the tears hot and heavy, a sickening wave of realization crashing over me.
This is it. This is my life if I stay…shattered phones, cruel whispers, bruises disguised beneath diamonds.
A month ago, at dinner, it was the way he grabbed my hand on the table, tight, punishing, silent violence hidden beneath polite smiles.
Tonight, it was my phone, smashed viciously to pieces.
I swallow back bile, cold dread slicing through my stomach, because if I marry him, I know exactly what’s next.
I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, clear and unavoidable.
He’ll hit me, sooner or later.
Maybe it’ll be hidden at first, a bruised wrist, marks beneath long sleeves, carefully crafted excuses. But eventually, his hands will land somewhere I can’t cover, my face, my mouth, my eyes. Somewhere visible. Somewhere shameful.
And I’ll never be able to hide the truth again.