Chapter 25
POV: Camille?
A few days later, the silence between us was louder than any argument could have been.
Michael had kept his distance, at least physically from me. He didn’t summon me to his office, he didn’t corner me in the hallways but the space he gave me wasn’t a relief.
It was a test.
And I hated how aware I was of him even when he wasn’t there.
The thing about silence is that it leaves you alone with your own thoughts and mine… they weren’t kind.
They replayed everything—the contract—the moments that blurred the line between business and personal—the things I had given him—my time, my body and pieces of myself I swore I’d never hand over to anyone again.
But then there was the betrayal—the secrets—the constant reminder that this wasn’t love, that it was an arrangement–a simple arrangement, signed and sealed with a contract.
And I’d been stupid enough to want more.
So when his assistant called and said, “Mr. Vanderbilt requests your presence at 8 pm sharp tonight.”
My first instinct was to say no—to reclaim a shred of dignity and my boundaries.
But my second instinct was curiosity, always, curiosity.
So at 8 pm, I found myself standing in front of a townhouse in the Upper east side, it wasn’t his penthouse, it was somewhere else.
The door opened before I could even knock and there he was.
Michael Vanderbilt.
“Camille,” he said, and the way my name rolled off his tongue made my knees betray me.
I squared my shoulders. “Why am I here, Michael?”
His mouth curved faintly, though his eyes didn’t soften. “Because it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
He didn’t reply, instead he just smiled that smug smile of his, that was his signature.
Inside, the townhouse was warm and intimate, it had exposed brick, low lighting, and a brick fireplace, it was not at all what I expected from him, Michael Vanderbilt billionaire.
“This place…” I said cautiously, scanning the room. “It doesn’t scream Vanderbilt.”
“That’s the point,” he replied. “This isn’t about my image—it’s about you and about us.”
I almost laughed.
Us.
As if that was a real word between us.
But then I saw it.
The table.
It was set for two people. There were real candles and white roses in a crystal vase and a meal that smelled like it was freshly cooked and not like something catered.
I blinked, amazed at the sight. “Did you…?”
“I cooked it myself.” His tone was casual, but his gaze was steady, gauging my reaction.
“You?”
“Yes, Camille. I know my way around a kitchen.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
He didn’t smile, his eyes just danced with mine. “Believe it anyway.”
I stared at him, torn between disbelief and something else that I didn’t want to name.
The man who measured life in contracts and leverage had just admitted to knowing how to cook properly.
“Why?” I asked finally.
“Because you deserve more than boardrooms and hotel rooms. You deserve more than a contract.”
The words hit me like a blow. A hard one.
“Michael…”
He stepped closer, until he was inches away from my face.
“I know what I’ve done. I know I’ve hurt you and I know I’ve manipulated situations to maintain control. That’s who I’ve always been, Camille but with you…”
His jaw tightened, and for once he looked almost human.
“With you, I want to be more…I want more, Camille.”
The silence stretched between us both heavy and unsteady.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to.
But belief wasn’t forgiveness and forgiveness wasn’t always easy.
“You think one dinner erases everything?” I whispered almost in disbelief.
“No, Camille, I don’t. But it’s a start.”
And dinner was surreal.
He poured me a glass of my favorite red wine. He actually remembered that it was pinot noir. He asked about my day, my cases, and my life outside the contract.
He listened, he actually really listened and in a way that unsettled me more than his arrogance ever had.
And for the first time, I saw him trying.
But that was the problem.
Because every smile–_every glance—every touch of his hand when he passed me a plate felt deliberate.
It felt like a grand gesture disguised as intimacy and while part of me ached to fall into it, another part whispered that it was all performance.
Halfway through the meal, he reached across the table and took my hand in his gently. “Camille.”
“This isn’t just about the contract anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”
I swallowed hard, unable to move from my chair.
“I know I’ve asked you for trust I haven’t earned. I know I’ve demanded control when I should have given you a choice. And I know…I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I want it anyway.”
His thumb brushed over my hand. “I want you, Camille and not because of the contract. Because you make me want to be a better man and that’s not something I’ve ever said to anyone.”
I should have melted. I should have fallen.
But instead, I pulled my hand back slowly.
His eyes flickered as he showed hurt. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
I laughed but there was no humor to it. “It’s not that simple. You can’t undo months of everything with one speech and a plate of pasta.”
“Then tell me what I need to do, Camille, tell me how to prove it,” he whispered.
I shook my head. “That’s the thing, Michael. I don’t know if you can.”
There was a long beat of silene between the two of us.
Then dinner was over and he guided me toward the couch near the fire and plopped down next to me on the couch.
“You’re pulling away,” he said softly, his gaze fixated on the flames in front of us.
“I don’t mean to,” I let out a heavy sigh as I pressed my back into the couch. “But I can’t stop myself.”
His hand lifted, brushing a strand of loose blonde hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. “You want me, you should stop denying yourself, because I want you too, Camille.”
“Yes, but it’s not that simple. Wanting you and trusting you aren’t the same thing.”
He stilled, his hand falling to his side for a moment.
“Then let me show you,” he murmured, flipping the script again by inching back towards me.
For one reckless second, I almost let him kiss me.
But at the last moment, I turned my face away from his.
The smallest of refusals, but it stung. It stung him.
“You’re afraid,” he said quietly.
“I’m cautious.”
“Cautious doesn’t look like this.” His thumb pressed lightly against my racing pulse at my throat. “Cautious doesn’t tremble when I touch you.”
His voice broke. “Then maybe I’m afraid of myself, maybe I’m afraid of what you make me feel, maybe I’m afraid of giving you more than I can afford to lose.”
And he was vulnerable again.
Michael’s expression shifted, the arrogance slipping for once and was replaced by something that looked dangerously like regret.
“Then stop trying to own me,” I whispered.
The night ended without a kiss and without promises and without a resolution.
When I stood to leave, he didn’t stop me and as I walked out of the townhouse into the cold night air, I realized the truth.
The reckoning hadn’t been his. It was mine.
Because no matter how grand his gestures were and no matter how deeply I wanted him, I had to decide if I could forgive the man behind them.
And the truth was—I wasn’t sure I could.