20. Chapter Twenty #2
She shakes her head. “You’re also the man who brought me here. Who touches me like I’m precious. Who let Rosa hold me tonight. Who has cousins that tease him and a niece who adores him. You’re more than the violence, Kane.”
I stare at her, at the quiet strength in her eyes, at the soft certainty she holds even when looking at someone like me.
“Maybe,” I say quietly. “But it doesn’t erase the blood.”
She leans in, pressing another soft kiss to my mouth, gentle but firm. “Then I’ll swallow that part of you, too.”
I close my eyes, letting her words sink into my chest. Letting them quiet the demons that scream loudest when I’m alone.
“Camille,” I whisper, voice rough with everything I can’t say clearly. “If you do…”
“I know,” she says softly. “And I’m staying.”
She settles back into me, her body relaxed, warm, safe.
And for the first time in a very long time, I let someone see the truth behind all my scars.
Because it’s her.
Because it’s Camille.
I exhale hard, pulling her closer. My hand cups the back of her head, holding her like something delicate. Like something I don’t deserve.
I press my lips to her ear.
“Te amo, Camille,” I whisper.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t say it immediately, not like the first time. She leans back instead, her gaze heavy, wet, steady.
Then she smiles, soft and shattering.
“I love you too.”
She says it like its fact.
Like it’s always been true.
Like it will always be true.
Camille
It doesn’t happen all at once.
It happens in pieces, quiet, deliberate, stitched together in moments I barely notice until they’ve already sunk into my bones.
We fall into a rhythm.
Not perfect. Not predictable.
But ours.
Breakfast in the sunlit courtyard, sometimes quiet, sometimes filled with his dry remarks about the headlines he pretends not to read. Late-night chess matches that stretch into something more, mental warfare, subtle flirtation, restraint in its most dangerous form.
We don’t play for checkmate.
We play to see who blinks first.
Neither of us ever wins.
Not really.
He watches me too closely.
And I like being seen like that.
It’s morning now, and the kitchen smells like espresso and eggs, something spiced and simmering low on the stove. Kane’s already poured my coffee the way I like it. I didn’t ask.
I don’t have to anymore.
I’m wearing one of his shirts again, sleeves rolled to my elbows, legs bare beneath the hem. His hand rests lazily on my thigh beneath the table as I drag a bishop across the board, considering my next move.
He watches.
Always.
“Are you going to make the move or just seduce me with your indecision?” he says dryly.
I snort. “Both.”
His mouth curves. Barely. But it’s enough.
I lift my eyes to him just as I drop the bishop in place. “Check.”
He hums. Unbothered. “You always play like you want to lose.”
“I don’t.”
“You just want it to look like you’re not trying.”
I look at him for a beat longer than I should. “That’s not just how I play chess.”
His eyes sharpen.
But I change the subject before he can push.
“I haven’t spoken to Lena,” I murmur suddenly. “Since… everything.”
Kane doesn’t react. Doesn’t speak. But his hand pauses briefly on my thigh.
“She’s my best friend,” I say quietly. “We met when we were sixteen. At one of those ridiculous galas with white orchids and endless donor walls. I was in some stupid structured satin dress and heels that didn’t fit.
She had purple hair, combat boots, and stole a bottle of champagne from the waitstaff. ”
He lifts a brow. “Your type.”
“She’s chaos,” I say, smiling softly into the memory. “But the best kind.”
I glance down at the chessboard, then back at him. “Her dad’s a drummer in some old metal band. Her mom’s famous for... well, a video. Lena’s never cared about image. She saw through mine from the first moment. Called me out constantly. Challenged everything I thought I knew about the world.”
Kane says nothing, but his hand resumes its movement, fingertips tracing idle circles along the inside of my thigh. Not sexual. Just... there.
Anchoring.
“She was my safe place,” I whisper. “After I left your penthouse. After we fought about the ring. I went straight to her apartment. I wore her clothes. I cried into her pillow.”
He lifts his eyes then, sharp and direct.
“She must be worried,” I say. “It’s been weeks. And I haven’t reached out. I didn’t even take my phone.”
Kane studies me. “She’s the one person who knows everything?”
I nod. “Or most of it. Enough to call me on my bullshit.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly: “You miss her.”
“Yes.”
He leans back slowly in his chair, his fingers leaving my skin like the heat of them is still there. He says nothing.
I go to sip my coffee again, and stop when I see what he’s holding.
A phone.
New. Sleek. Unopened.
I stare at it.
“What’s this?”
“So you can call her. And your sister,” he adds. “I know you haven’t talked to her either.”
I blink, heart knocking too fast. “Kane…”
“You don’t owe me silence,” he says, cutting me off gently. “I’m not Preston. I don’t want your world small just so I can fit better in it.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
He steps closer, brushes my hair off my shoulder. “You don’t have to erase them to make room for me.”
My throat closes.
I look down at the phone, then back up at him.
“You think you know everything,” I whisper.
He leans in, lips brushing my cheek, my ear, the corner of my mouth. “I study what I love.”
And just like that, I break.
Quietly. Softly. Without warning.
I slide off the counter and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. He holds me without asking what’s wrong. Without needing an explanation. Just lets me tremble against him in a kitchen full of light, espresso, and the first peace I’ve felt in days.
“I love you,” I whisper into his shirt, barely audible.
His grip tightens.
Then his mouth lowers to my temple.
“Te amo, Munequita.”
***
I sink deeper into the thick, plush comforter, clutching the sleek, overpriced phone Kane shoved into my hand earlier. My pulse trips and stutters, fingertips trembling, palms clammy, God, why am I acting like I'm about to drunk-dial an ex?
It’s just Lena.
But then again, the last time I saw her, the last time we really talked—I’d stumbled to her door like some wounded animal, sobbing, pride ripped to shreds.
Hours after I’d carved Kane apart with my words, after I looked him dead in the eye and told him he was beneath me, shattering something between us that neither of us knew how to fix.
Lena, in perfect Lena fashion, had pulled me inside without question, wiped my tears, and rolled me a joint potent enough to numb every ounce of guilt clawing at my chest. She’d brushed back my hair, straightened my spine, and told me with a smirk that apologies were always best delivered naked.
God, I miss her.
My forever ride-or-die—and somehow I’d let weeks bleed by without a single call or text.
But everything had spiraled out of control too fast: Preston and our broken engagement, finally snapping beneath the weight of my parents' suffocating expectations, the buried trauma they’d forced me to swallow and hide for years.
And then running—recklessly, desperately—straight into Kane’s arms, letting him whisk me away to Miami.
Too much. Too fast. I'd barely managed to catch my breath. And now here I am, hiding out in paradise with the very man I’d always known could destroy me completely. But he'd been embedded in my bloodstream from that very first night we fucked, and there was no tearing him out now.
I can already hear Lena’s delighted shriek when I admit that yes, I took her advice, stripped naked, and got down on my knees to grovel for Kane Rivera’s forgiveness.
She's never going to let me live it down.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I finally force my fingers to move, dialing her number before I can chicken out. Each ring makes my pulse quicken, my heart hammering stupidly hard against my rib cage. I grip the phone tighter.
Three rings, four—
Then Lena’s sleepy, irritated voice cuts through, dripping with venom. “If you’re calling about my car’s extended warranty, respectfully, fuck all the way off.”
My throat immediately closes up, tears stinging behind my eyes, laughter burning at the back of my throat. “Lena.”
Dead silence. A beat passes, then another.
“Bitch.”
I choke on a laugh, tears spilling over onto my cheeks. “Hey.”
“Hey?” she snaps, voice instantly sharp, alert, lethal.
“You vanish without a single text or DM slide or even a smoke signal, and now you hit me with a casual ‘hey’? Camille Sinclair, are you fucking serious? I’ve listened to every murder podcast on Spotify waiting for your damn name.
Tell me right now you’re not chained in some psycho’s basement. ”
I smile despite myself, wiping my eyes roughly. “I’m not chained in anyone’s basement.”
“Good. You’re too hot to become a tragic Netflix documentary.
” She lets out an exaggerated breath, as if she'd genuinely been holding it all these weeks. “Now tell me exactly where the fuck you’ve been. The Preston disaster has been feeding those Upper East Side gossip vultures for weeks. His smug face is plastered on every news channel claiming he’s the victim. ”
I laugh bitterly, wiping away fresh tears. “Not surprised."
“Exactly. Now spill. Where the fuck have you—wait, Cami… babe… please, please tell me you went full naked slut mode and begged your billionaire cartel daddy to take you back."
My cheeks flush hot, a fierce burn flooding through my chest. Lena always has a way of cutting straight to the bone, zeroing in on the sordid truth buried beneath my carefully crafted lies. I stay silent for a moment and then—“Apologies are best delivered naked.”