Chapter 21
POV: Camille?
There are moments in life when everything feels like it’s splintering apart—like you’ve reached the edge of a cliff and you’re not sure whether to jump, climb back down,or just stand there forever, paralyzed.
And that’s where I was.
Standing on the metaphorical cliff that was Michael Vanderbilt.
And for the first time since I signed my name on that stupid contract, I was seriously considering walking away.
The thought was terrifying itself and not just because of the money, though God knows that was part of it. 6 months of my life for financial freedom, that had been the deal. That had been the golden carrot dangling in front of my broke, law school debt ridden face.
But now, nearly 2/3 of the way through the contract, the money wasn’t the scariest thing I stood to lose.
It was him.
It was Michael.
The thought of never feeling his hands on me again or never hearing his voice drop into that low growl or never seeing the look in his eyes when his mask slipped, well it made my stomach twist painfully.
And the worst part?
I didn’t even know if what I felt was love, lust, or just a chemical dependency created by one too many late nights in his bed or on his desk or in a bathroom—anywhere really.
All I knew was that the thought of giving it up made me ache in places I didn’t want to acknowledge.
So I did what any rational, independent woman would do in my situation.
I ghosted him.
I didn’t plan on doing it for forever but just long enough to get my head on straight.
When the first text came through, I shook my head.
Michael: Where are you?
I stared at it until the words blurred, then I shoved my phone into my bag and pretended the message didn’t exist.
The second text came an hour later.
Michael: Dinner at 8 pm at my place.
My fingers hovered over my phone screen, because the urge to type yes was overwhelming but I forced myself to lock the screen closed instead.
Then the third message came.
Michael: Don’t ignore me, Camille.
But I ignored him anyway.
Because if I didn’t give myself some space, I’d never know if I was choosing him out of want or out of weakness.
The next morning at work, I became a master of avoidance. A true master. If he was in the conference room then I was suddenly very busy in the file room and if he walked the floor, looking for me then I buried myself in paperwork in a storage closet.
I knew he noticed. Michael noticed everything.
But he didn’t confront me, not directly. He kept the professional line drawn clear, very clear, as he always did.
And when I told Jenna what happened over mid-afternoon coffee, she knew that I was still thinking about it before I said out loud.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
“What thing?” I asked, feigning innocence as I sipped my coffee.
“The thing where you try to convince yourself you’re in control by ignoring him.”
I scowled into my mug. “I am in control, Jenna. I’m the one who gave him the ultimatum.”
She arched her brow. “Really? Because you look like you’re trying to not check your phone every 30 seconds.”
Damn her and her uncanny accuracy.
“I’m just… thinking,” I muttered.
“Thinking,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Cam, you’ve been thinking yourself in circles since this whole thing started. Maybe stop thinking and start deciding for once. You already took one step, now take another.”
And her words hit harder than I wanted to admit.
Deciding. Right. That was the problem.
By later that night, I was unraveling. Completely unraveling.
I sat in my apartment, phone buzzing on the coffee table as he texted me over and over again.
Michael: We need to talk.
Michael: Answer me.
Michael: Camille.
I pressed my hands into my eyes, trying to block it all out. But the words kept circling in my head on a loop.
You’re mine.
He’d said that so many times, like it was absolute, like it was unshakable.
But when I asked him to prove it? When I asked him to let it be real? He walked away.
And now here I was, trapped between fear and desire, power and independence, and love and self-preservation.
And to make it worse, the next morning I overslept.
I rushed into the office over 10 minutes late with my blue blouse slightly wrinkled, trying to pretend my life wasn’t collapsing around me.
And there he was.
Michael, he was standing at the end of the hall and speaking to one of his up level managers.
And for a split second, our eyes met.
Heat shot through me—it was the same pull that had been there from the beginning, connecting us together.
But I looked away first and I ducked down the first hallway I saw then inside the bathroom and shut the door. I leaned against it, thinking.
That evening, Jenna dragged me out for drinks.
“Enough moping,” she declared, shoving a dirty martini into my hand. “You either walk away from him or you don’t, but you’re not allowed to sit in your apartment sad anymore.”
I sipped the drink. “It’s not that simple, Jen.”
She laughed. “Of course it’s that simple. It’s always that simple. You just don’t like the answer.”
I glared at her. “Whose side are you on anyway?”
She leaned over the table and pressed her hand onto mine. “Yours—always yours, Cam. Which is why I’m telling you, stop waiting for him to change and he won’t. He’s giving you the terms. And the question is whether you can live with them.”
Her words were heavy.
Could I live with them? Could I live with being wanted but never fully claimed?
The thought of walking away gutted me.
But the thought of staying on his terms…well that gutted me too.
The next day, I sat with my thoughts, once again. My insistent thoughts. My annoying thoughts. My obsessive thoughts.
Michael’s texts had slowed but not stopped.
I glanced down at the last.
Michael: My office, Camille. See me tomorrow at 7:00 am and don’t be late.
My stomach twisted.
Because maybe this was it.
Maybe tomorrow morning was when I’d have to decide whether to keep walking this dangerous line with him or to finally walk away for good.