Chapter 27
POV: Camille?
The next morning, I woke with a clarity that tasted like freedom—sweet freedom. Something I hadn’t felt since before the contract.
It wasn’t relief, not exactly but it was a decision and that was a starting point, as I’ve been indecisive for months now, since I began the contract and got twisted in a world of reckless, bipolar emotions that encompassed Michael Vanderbilt.
The penthouse confrontations had shaken something loose inside me—hearing Michael strip himself bear, hearing words from him I’d never expected to hear—those had mattered.
They had. But what mattered more was what I felt when I left—that the contract still hung between us like chains I’d agreed to wear in the first place.
And I decided that I couldn’t do it anymore.
I finally realized—truly realized that I deserved more.
From him. From men. From relationships.
I deserved more than a set of terms and conditions, more than simply being “the exception” in a system that was broken from the start—more than a man who couldn’t tell the difference between control and love, no matter how desperately he wanted to or tried.
I was Camille Martens. Harvard Law graduate. Young, ambitious, and stubborn enough to claw my way through any city. I hadn’t worked this hard to become someone’s carefully drafted arrangement.
So I got dressed for war, even though it would be less bloody and more emotionally charged.
I walked into Vanderbilt Technologies like I owned the place, not like I owed it my future.
The lobby buzzed with the morning rush but I didn’t falter. I couldn’t.
I pressed the button for the top floor—his floor.
And as the elevator climbed, I repeated the words in my head. “You deserve more. You deserve more. You deserve more.”
And when the doors slid open, his assistant looked up towards me in surprise. “Miss Martens, Mr. Vanderbilt isn’t expecting…”
“I know.” But I didn’t stop. “But he’ll see me.”
And God help me, he would.
He was on the phone when I entered, standing behind his desk with one hand braced on the polished wood desk. But the moment his eyes landed on me, his voice faltered. “I’ll call you back,” he said abruptly, hanging up. He straightened his shoulders back, as his eyes landed on mine. “Camille.”
I didn’t sit. I didn’t fidget. I didn’t give him time to draw me in with that presence of his.
“We need to talk,” I said simply.
He nodded. “So talk.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m done.”
And it felt good to say those words.
For a moment there was only silence.
“Done?” he repeated slowly, as if he didn’t believe it.
“Yes. I’m done with the contract and with this arrangement, Michael. I can’t do it anymore.”
His jaw tightened. “Camille…”
“No, listen to me!” I yelled. “You wanted clarity? Here it is. I wanted more than this and even though you say you’ll try, I don’t think you can give me it, Michael. I want a future that’s mine,
not one borrowed from your terms and I don’t think any version of whatever you’ve cooked up will give me what I want…what I need.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you think walking away will give you that?”
“Yes.”
“And what about us? Do you really want to throw that away too?”
I flinched at the word.
Us.
God, how I wanted it to be real.
But I didn’t believe it.
“There was never really an ‘us,’ Michael. Not with a contract between us.”
That landed on him. Hard. I saw it in the flicker of his eyes.
He came around the desk, each step deliberate. “Don’t do this, Camille.”
He wasn’t begging. He wasn’t letting his mask slip, not here.
And that was the problem. It was always hot and cold and up and down, with him.
One moment I think he’d change and the next I didn’t.
I didn’t know what was real with him, his words were glazed in honey, but they were just that—words.
I needed action. And a few pleas made in his penthouse about his vulnerability and about our relationship didn’t cut it. It wasn’t action.
“I have to,” I replied even though it hurt.
“Camille…” His voice broke on my name, and I hated how much it undid me. I’ll change the terms. I’ll tear it up–the contract.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe you, Michael.”
Silence.
Just silence.
Then I said, “you still don’t get it, Michael. I just don’t know if after everything…after all this contract did to us that things could still workout.”
Neither of us spoke.
His eyes searched mine but underneath I saw it: fear.
“You’d really walk away? After everything?”
“Yes.” My voice cracked, but I forced the word out.
Finally, he exhaled and said, “You’re stronger than I ever imagined.”
“That’s why you wanted me in the first place.”
“And that’s why I’m terrified of losing you, Camille.”
For a moment, I almost broke. I almost let him see how badly I was shaking inside and how much I wanted to stay.
But I didn’t. I knew I couldn’t.
I knew that a contract developed on want and control was not love and I didn’t think that anything healthy could form from it, not after all we’ve been through, not after all we’ve fought so hard to keep on both sides.
I gathered what was left of my pride, my courage, and my heart then said. “Goodbye, Michael.”
And then I turned and walked out before I could change my mind.
By the time I reached the lobby, my legs were trembling.
The city air hit me like a slap—cold, sharp, real.
I stood on the sidewalk, clutching my bag, forcing myself to breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
You did it.
You broke the chains.
So why did it feel like I’d left a piece of myself behind?
I made it exactly 3 blocks before I ducked into a coffee shop, collapsing into a corner booth.
I told myself I should feel free—that I should feel liberated—but all I felt was hollow.
I made my choice and for once, I’d chosen myself.
Now I just had to live with it.