Chapter 11 Camilla
He comes to me early, and I'm ready.
I've been awake since dawn, selecting my outfit. Cream silk blouse that's professional but hints at what lies beneath. Black pants that show my figure without being obvious. Hair pulled back in a style that suggests competence while leaving my neck exposed.
The lock clicks, and Renato enters carrying what appears to be garment bags and several small boxes. He's dressed in a suit as always, but there's something different about his demeanor this morning. More focused. More... deadly.
"Good morning," I say before he can speak, moving from the window to face him directly. "You look like a man about to begin something he's not entirely sure he wants to finish."
His dark eyes sweep over me, taking in every detail of my appearance with an assessment that feels almost physical. "We start your preparation today."
"Ah. And what exactly does that preparation entail?"
He sets the garment bags on the bed. "First, we address your wardrobe. What you wore yesterday was adequate for a kidnapped socialite. Today we transform you into merchandise that commands premium prices."
The cold way he says it should sting. Instead, I find myself curious about his choices.
"Show me," I say.
He unzips the first bag, revealing a cocktail dress in deep burgundy silk. "For Al-Rashid. Conservative enough to suggest modesty, expensive enough to demonstrate your value."
"How thoughtful of you to coordinate my outfit with my sale." I pick up the dress, feeling the expensive fabric between my fingers. "And you know his preferences how?"
"I do my research."
He moves to the second bag. "This is for Kozlov. Something that suggests innocence but hints at what he can corrupt."
The black silk dress that emerges makes my stomach turn. "Of course. Because that's exactly what every woman dreams of. An outfit designed to highlight her corruption potential."
"This is business, Camilla."
"Is it?" I snatch the third dress from his hands before he can present it properly. White silk that's practically transparent. "Or is this you getting off on playing dress-up with your kidnapped doll?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being honest." I hold up the white dress, letting the sheer fabric catch the light. "This isn't clothing, Renato. This is a 'please rape me' costume. And you picked it out yourself. That’s disgusting."
"Al-Mansouri has specific preferences."
"Al-Mansouri is a sick fuck, and apparently so are you." The words come out hotter than I intended, but I don't take them back. "You want me to parade around in these outfits so you can evaluate how fuckable I look for your buyers?"
"That's not what we're doing here."
"That's exactly what this is." I throw the white dress back at him. "You want a personal fashion show where you get to imagine me with each of these men. You want to picture their hands on me, their mouths on me. What else are you imagining?"
"Enough."
The command in his voice only fuels my anger.
"Don't you fucking dare 'enough' me. You're the one who brought rape costumes to my room.
Tell me, when you were shopping for these dresses, did you get hard thinking about Al-Mansouri tearing the white one off me?
Did you imagine Kozlov's hands on the black silk?
Do you jack off in the shower fantasizing about what these men will do to me? "
"You're crossing a line."
"I'm crossing a line? Fuck you, Renato! You crossed that line when you kidnapped me from my own wedding. Everything after that is just details."
He calmly sets the dresses aside. "This preparation is necessary for the initial viewing."
"For who? For them, or for you?" I step closer, invading his space. "Because I think you want to see me in these dresses. I think you want to play out your own little fantasy before you hand me over to them."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Then why are your hands shaking?"
He looks down at his hands, and I see the slight tremor he's been trying to hide.
"You want me," I continue, pressing my advantage. "You've wanted me since that cathedral. And now you want to play with your toy before you sell it."
"You're not a toy."
"Then what am I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're treating me like your personal dress-up doll." I gesture to the dresses scattered on the bed. "What's next? Lingerie modeling? A full strip show so you can properly evaluate the goods?"
His breathing has changed—deeper, more controlled, like he's fighting something violent.
"The training requires—"
"The training requires you to get your rocks off watching me perform for you." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "At least the other buyers are honest about what they want from me. You're the one pretending this is business."
"It's always been business."
"Bullshit." I pick up the burgundy dress again, holding it against my body. "You want to see me in this? Fine. But let's be brutally honest about what we're doing here. You don't get to pretend you're helping me."
I start unbuttoning my blouse right there in front of him, watching his eyes go wide.
"Camilla, what are you—"
"Giving you what you want. A show." I slide the blouse off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "Isn't this why you're really here? To see how much you can push me before I break? Isn’t that part of the process?"
"Stop."
"Why? Getting uncomfortable?" I reach for the clasp of my bra. "Too real for your professional assessment? Tell me, Renato. Do these men like big breasts? Or are they satisfied with a normal B cup?"
His hand shoots out to grab my wrist. "I said stop."
I feel the contact all the way up my arm, but I don't let him see it affect me. "Well, there it is. Finally, a real reaction instead of that cold businessman act."
"You want a real reaction?" His grip tightens slightly. "You need to stop pushing me."
"Or what? What can you possibly do that will be worse than what these men will do to me? You should stop pretending you don't want to fuck me yourself instead of selling me to other men."
I see the exact moment his control snaps, the flash of something primal and possessive in his dark eyes.
"You think that's what I want?"
"Isn’t it? You're going crazy thinking about other men touching me.
I think every time you imagine me with Al-Rashid or Kozlov, you want to put your fist through a wall.
" I twist my wrist in his grip, not to escape but to emphasize the contact.
"I think this whole training charade is just an excuse to get your hands on me before you have to give me away. "
"You're wrong."
"Prove it. Let go of my wrist and walk away." I lean closer. "Leave me alone with these dresses and your professional fucking assessment."
He stares at me for a long moment, his grip still firm on my wrist, his breathing still too controlled. Then, slowly, he releases me. But he doesn't step back.
"Put your shirt back on," he says quietly.
"Why? Afraid you might see something you like? Something that makes this personal instead of professional?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. For a moment, the anger burning in my chest shifts to something else. Something that feels dangerously like victory.
"There now," I say softly, reaching for my blouse. "Was that so hard? One honest reaction instead of pretending you're made of stone."
I slip the blouse back on, but I don't button it immediately. Let him look at my breasts. Let him want what he can't have.
"The dresses," he says, his voice rougher than before.
"What about them?"
"Try them on. All of them." He moves to the chair by the window and sits down. "But understand something, Camilla. I'm not the enemy here. I'm the only thing standing between you and men who would break you for sport."
"And what does that make you? My savior? My knight in shining armor?"
"It makes me the devil you know."
He has a point there.
I examine the three dresses with new eyes. Not as strategic tools, but as symbols of everything that's been taken from me. My choice, my dignity, my future.
"Fine. Still want your fashion show?" I grab the burgundy dress. "What's wrong, Renato? Suddenly shy about evaluating your merchandise?"
His hands grip the chair arms. "Camilla—"
"No." The blouse slides off my shoulders. "You said this was business. You said you needed to see how these dresses looked on me." I reach for the clasp of my bra and the black lace falls away. "Take a good damn look."
"Jesus Christ," he breathes.
"Getting uncomfortable?" I step out of my pants, standing before him in nothing but black panties. "This is what Al-Rashid will see. This is what Kozlov will touch. This is what other men will own."
I pick up the burgundy dress and slide it over my head, the silk caressing my bare skin. No bra, as intended—the fabric clings to every curve, every line, making it obvious what lies beneath.
"There." I do a slow turn, letting him see every angle. "How's that for presentation? Do my nipples show through the fabric? Can you see them? I believe that’s the point, don’t you? Think Al-Rashid will be satisfied with his purchase?"
Renato's breathing has gone ragged. "You're pushing me too far."
"I'm fighting for my life. And if making you lose your precious control helps me survive, then I'll strip naked and dance on your fucking lap. Should I do that?” I move closer to him and straddle his legs. “Do you like what you see now? Want to touch my breasts? It’s taking every bit of control you have not to reach out and touch me, isn’t it?”
"Stop."
"Why? Because you're finally seeing me as something other than inventory?" I lean down, bringing my face inches from his. "Because you're realizing what you're really selling?"
"What I'm realizing," he says roughly, "is that you're more dangerous than I thought."
"Maybe dangerous enough that you'll think twice before handing me over to these animals." I straighten and reach for the black dress. "Ready for outfit number two?"
"Camilla, don't—"
But I'm already pulling the burgundy dress over my head, tossing it aside. I stand before him again, nearly naked, watching his control fracture in real time.
"This is the view Kozlov gets," I say conversationally. "He likes to see what he's raping, doesn't he?"
I slip into the black dress, and this one is even worse—or better, depending on your perspective. The silk molds to my body like a second skin, the neckline plunging low enough to show the curve of my breasts.
"Perfect for a man who wants to break innocent things," I observe. "Think he'll be gentle while he's destroying me? Should I act afraid? Is that what gets their rocks off?"
"That's enough." Renato's voice is strained.
"Is it? Because we still have one more dress to go." I reach for the white silk. "The pièce de résistance. A virgin rape fantasy come to life."
"You don't have to."
"Oh fuck yes, I do. Because this is my reality, Renato. This is what you're condemning me to." I peel off the black dress. "So, you're going to watch every second of it."
The white dress is even more obscene than I remembered.
Nearly transparent, it shows everything while pretending to hide it.
When I look in the mirror, I see exactly what was ordered, a virgin sacrifice wrapped in silk.
For added effect, I pull the dress up and slide my panties off before kicking them toward him.
"There," I say, turning to face him. "The complete collection. Which one makes your cock the hardest thinking about another man tearing it off me?"
His control finally snaps. He's on his feet and across the room before I can blink, his hands gripping my shoulders.
"You want to know the truth?" His voice is rough, dangerous. "Thinking about any of them touching you makes me want to commit murder."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"I don't have a fucking choice."
"Liar! Everyone has a choice."
"Not in my world." His grip tightens. "In my world, you pay your debts or you pay the consequences. And your families chose to let you pay."
"So, you're the victim here? Poor Renato, forced to sell innocent women to save his reputation?"
"I'm the man trying to keep you alive. Because if I don't sell you to one of these buyers, there are worse options. Much worse."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "Worse than being owned by a sheik? Worse than being Kozlov's plaything until he gets bored and kills me?"
"Yes."
The simple honesty in his answer stops my laughter cold.
"Then you'd better train me well or fucking kill me now yourself," I say finally. "Because apparently my survival depends on how good a whore you can make me."
Something flickers in his eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. "You're not a whore."
"No? Then what am I? I'm what, Renato?