15. Chapter Fifteen #2
The woman lowers her voice further, savoring the secret. “I’m a pedophile.”
The room spins, my vision narrows. My champagne flute shakes violently, spilling over my knuckles, glass clinking ominously.
“Camille?” Clara touches my elbow softly, her voice distant, muted by the roaring in my ears. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale…”
“Y-yes,” I choke, shoving through the crowd, stumbling blindly to the terrace doors. Cold night air slams into me, icy needles puncturing my skin, but it doesn’t ease the suffocating pressure in my chest. It doesn’t silence the relentless, agonizing truth carving itself through me.
Kane.
You don’t need to heal. You don’t need to forgive. You need a fucking monster.
This has his signature written in blood…every cruel, deliberate detail screaming his name.
I devour. I break. I end.
He’d promised it in a whisper, in a kiss, in blood and breath and darkness.
I summoned him, my monster, and now he’s delivered.
This has Kane Rivera’s signature carved into every brutal detail, every precise, violent slash, every twisted trophy left behind.
His devotion is deep. Savage. Terrifying.
And now, undeniably…soaked in blood.
I grip the cold railing of the terrace, fingers numb against iron, chest heaving violently as I drag air deep into starving lungs. My heart pounds brutally, a wild, savage rhythm that matches the violence he carved into Douglas Everheart’s skin.
I know I should be horrified.
Disgusted.
Terrified.
But instead, a sick, twisted relief pours through me, washing away years of silence, shame, and hollow smiles. For the first time since I was ten years old, drowning beneath that dark water, I breathe deep…real, unfiltered, painfully honest breaths that shred my lungs.
Kane gave me this.
This ugly, vicious gift. A love as monstrous as it is beautiful, as cruel as it is healing. And now, beneath the terror, beneath the violence, beneath the raw truth branded deep into my bones…
I want more.
I want him.
Every twisted, brutal, unforgivable piece of him. Every scar, every sin, every dark corner of his monstrous heart. I crave the darkness in him, the violent protector, the relentless avenger who would rip apart anyone who dared to touch me.
I want to sit at his feet.
My monster. My nightmare. My salvation.
The realization rips through me, savage and beautiful, and I don’t fight it, I can’t. I don’t have the strength to lie anymore, to deny the twisted, visceral truth that coils around my heart.
I was never afraid of monsters.
I was afraid of living without one.
“Kane,” I whisper into the biting darkness, my voice raw, aching, filled with something terrifyingly close to worship.
I close my eyes, the city lights bleeding together, tears hot on my frozen cheeks, and for the first time in years, I’m not drowning.
I’m breathing.
And all I can think, all I can feel, is that he’s done exactly what he promised:
He broke.
He devoured.
He ended.
For me.
***
The evening begins exactly how these dinners always do.
Perfectly.
The restaurant is immaculate, white linen draped elegantly over polished tables, candles flickering softly, shadows dancing across crystal glasses and delicate china, illuminating everything except the truth.
Waiters glide silently across the floor, bottles of French reds and chilled whites carefully chosen to impress.
Each plate arrives pristine, beautiful, arranged meticulously, as though perfection can erase reality.
My mother’s voice floats gently through the air, soft, practiced, elegant, as she debates Clara’s bridal shower details with casual disdain.
“Vera Wang simply isn’t fresh anymore,” she sighs delicately, taking a measured sip from her wine glass.
My father nods, his expression cool and detached, eyes carefully scanning the room, cataloging faces and connections he values far more than his own daughters.
Politicians, media moguls, old-money royalty.
Beside me, Preston sits composed and confident, perfectly controlled.
He smiles on cue, refills my wine glass without missing a beat, his hand resting gently, possessively, on my thigh.
His handsome, charming, and utterly hollow eyes glittering with well-masked contempt.
He’s so good at pretending. Far better than I am.
But beneath that smile, behind his flawless manners, lurks something dark.
Something vicious. The same something that grips my hand too tight on tables, leaving bruises hidden beneath diamonds.
The same something that shatters phones against marble floors.
Preston’s smile widens, effortlessly charming towards everyone at the table, his mask perfectly in place.
But the truth is brutal: eventually, his hands won’t stop at bruising my wrists or destroying my things. He’ll hit me. And when he does, my parents won’t protect me. They’ll twist the story until somehow I’m to blame. They’ll take his side.
Because that’s what they’ve always done. Protecting the image. Choosing power. Shielding monsters in pretty masks.
Across the table, Clara laughs at something Nathan says. The joy in her eyes is warm and genuine, sparkling in a way mine haven’t in years.
And suddenly, I realize, I’m not really here.
I’m standing outside my body, watching this perfectly staged performance unfold like I’m attending my own wake. Beautiful gown. Beautiful flowers. Beautiful corpse.
Pressure builds in my chest, relentless, suffocating, like a hand squeezing tighter every time I swallow another lie.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
And then, before I can stop it, I speak.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
My voice is quiet, a cracked whisper, but it slices through the careful conversation, silencing the table like shattered glass.
My mother pauses mid-word, eyes wide, frozen. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Slowly, my gaze lifts. Everyone is staring, shock and confusion rippling through their carefully composed expressions.
My throat tightens, pulse roaring violently in my ears, but the words come anyway…unstoppable, bloody, raw.
“I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t keep playing this part.”
“Camille.” My father’s voice is quiet thunder, his eyes narrowed, warning me like he has my entire life. “Now isn’t the time.”
“No,” I say, voice stronger, steadier. “It’s exactly the time.”
For the first time in years, I feel my own heartbeat. Real. True.
“I’ve been pretending since I was a little girl,” I whisper fiercely, voice breaking, hands trembling in my lap, but I don’t stop. I can’t. “I’ve smiled when I wanted to scream. I’ve said I slipped when someone shoved me. I’ve said I lied when I was telling the truth.”
My mother’s face pales, eyes darting anxiously around the table, voice tight and pleading. “Camille, please…”
“Did you know Douglas Everheart molested me, Mom?”
The silence detonates, a brutal, devastating blast that shatters every careful facade around the table. My words hang there, sharp and ugly, slicing through polished smiles and meaningless pleasantries.
My mother flinches, her perfectly painted lips parting softly, confusion bleeding into shock, but for once I don’t feel guilty for shattering her careful facade. My father’s jaw tightens, eyes darkening with a familiar, suffocating disappointment he’s wielded like a weapon all my life.
They stare at me like I’m speaking a language they don’t understand. And maybe I am because honesty has never been allowed at this table.
“Camille,” my father’s voice warns quietly, ice wrapped in silk, but even he can’t hide the faint tremble beneath the surface. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
“It never is.” My voice is quiet, broken, heavy with the weight of a thousand silences. “But somehow, it’s always your time, isn’t it? Your terms. Your comfort. Your goddamn image. Always the fucking image.”
My mother reaches for her wine glass, her hand shaking violently, liquid trembling dangerously close to the rim. “Camille, please,” she whispers, eyes begging, but still refusing to truly see me. “We’re in public. Let’s discuss…”
“Discuss?” A sad, bitter laugh escapes me. “Like we discussed it when I was ten years old? When Douglas Everheart put his hands on me, and you told me to smile through it? When I begged you to hear me, and instead you dressed me up and told me silence was easier?”
She pales, her hand falling away from her glass, lips trembling with something dangerously close to shame.
“You failed me.” The words come softly, trembling from the depths of my chest. They’re not angry, they’re hollowed out, aching with betrayal, bleeding with every scar I’ve hidden beneath designer dresses and forced smiles.
“You should’ve protected me. You should’ve believed me.
Instead, you buried me alive under your perfect lies. ”
Tears blur my vision, hot and relentless, burning a silent trail down my cheeks.
“I’ve spent my entire life giving you everything you ever wanted,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice shaking, splitting open beneath the raw truth spilling free.
“I swallowed my pain, my trauma, my voice. I smiled through your carefully orchestrated charade, dying every time you made me lie about who I was.”
My father looks away, unable, or unwilling, to meet my eyes.
My mother sits frozen, hands trembling, her careful poise shattered, her perfect world splintering at my feet.
Clara’s hand covers her mouth, her eyes glassy, horror seeping in as understanding hits her fully for the first time. She didn’t know. She’d never known.
My chest heaves painfully, years of buried agony finally cracking open, spilling out, staining everything around me. I feel every heartbeat, every trembling breath like glass slicing through my lungs.
I turn slowly, deliberately, to Preston. I turn slowly, deliberately, to Preston, meeting his cold, detached gaze head-on.