Page 118 of Corrupting Camille

I pick at my food, pushing around the decoratively plated vegetables. My heart thuds uncomfortably, a heavy rhythm demanding answers I’m not sure I’m ready to hear.

“Preston,” I interrupt softly, my voice barely louder than the murmur of surrounding diners. His words fade mid-sentence, his expression mild, patient. “Can I ask you something?”

His brow lifts slightly, amused but cautious. “Of course.”

“I need you to be honest. No scripts, no rehearsals. Just...truth.” My chest tightens, dread curling painfully behind my ribs. “Do you love me? Do you really want this? To marry me, to live this kind of life?”

He goes perfectly still, eyes locked on mine, the steady, practiced smile slipping from his lips. For a moment, he just watches me, calm, unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he stretches out his hand across the table, palm up.

My pulse trips. Hesitantly, I place my hand in his.

Preston’s fingers curl around mine, soft at first. He traces the edge of my engagement ring gently, thoughtfully, his thumb brushing slowly over the diamond.

“You’re stunning, Camille,” he murmurs, voice low, calm…too calm. “You’re the kind of beautiful that silences a room. Your face, your body…every detail so perfect it seems unreal.” He offers a half-smile, eyes fixed on our joined hands. “Do you know that every time my friends joke about hall passes, your name always comes up first? Every single time.”

My stomach twists uneasily, heat prickling up my neck. “Preston…”

“It’s flattering,” he interrupts, voice smoothly detached. “Men want you. Women envy you. It’s exactly what I need beside me. You’re the perfect trophy, Camille.”

His thumb stills, pressing lightly into the back of my hand. “But trophies can tarnish, can’t they?”

A chill races down my spine. I stare at him, heart pounding painfully against my ribs.

“I’m not blind, Camille.” His voice drops dangerously low, softening into something cruelly intimate, icy, controlled, almost gentle. “I see the way Kane Rivera looks at you. Like he’s already had you. Like he owns you. His hands always find reasons to touch you, like he’s daring me to notice.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. Every word lands with surgical precision, flaying me open from the inside out.

“And you…” He tilts his head slightly, grip tightening around my wrist until the ache blooms sharp. “You let him. Eyes all glassy, breath caught, like some desperate little slut starving for attention.”

His words slap harder than his hand ever could.

“Have you fucked him?”

My lungs seize, mouth opening but nothing comes out. “Preston…” It’s barely a breath, but it’s all I can manage.

He leans in, tone turning almost conversational, as if we’re discussing the weather. “I’m not upset,” he says smoothly. “We’ve both strayed. I’ve had Ivy, several times. You’ve clearly had…needs.” A pause, deliberate. Measured. “But once we marry…” His voice drops lower, each word punctuated clearly, mercilessly precise. “once you’re my wife, that stops. Kane stops. The fucking games stop.”

His fingers tighten, grinding bone to bone until pain surges up my arm, viciously bright. I gasp softly, instinctively twisting to break free. But he only holds tighter, dragging me back, the gesture harsh and quiet, hidden beneath false politeness.

“I won’t be humiliated,” he whispers, each word delivered like a promise carved in stone. “You will smile when cameras flash. You will hold my hand at every gala. And you will never let another man put his hands on you again. Am I clear?”

“Preston, please...” I whisper, my voice cracking on the plea. “You’re hurting me.”

He leans in, his breath brushing my ear, voice empty of mercy. “Answer me, Camille.”

A quiet sob twists painfully in my throat. I don’t fight his hold anymore. “Yes,” I breathe, voice fractured, raw. “You’re clear.”

He finally loosens his grip, though his fingers linger, tracing the reddened skin tenderly. His gaze softens abruptly, as if he hadn’t just fractured something between us irrevocably.

“You asked if I love you,” he murmurs, almost as an afterthought, eyes drifting over my face. “People like us don’t marry for love. We marry for power. For advantage.” He smiles faintly, bitter and hollow. “Love complicates things. Passion fades. Power…now that lasts.”

I pull my hand back slowly, the ache throbbing painfully where his fingers had pressed too deeply. Preston lifts his glass, takes a casual sip, and resumes the conversation he was having before, as if we hadn’t just stripped ourselves raw, revealing the ugly truth beneath our perfect facade.

And sitting there, staring numbly at my plate, I realize exactly what this marriage will be, a beautiful cage, meticulously constructed. One I willingly stepped into.

But something stirs inside me, something stubborn and restless, a whisper of defiance. My heart speeds as I meet Preston’s indifferent gaze.

“What if I can’t?” I ask quietly. My voice shakes, but I push through. “What if I can’t pretend?”

His eyes flicker with something dark, dangerous. “Pretend?” he repeats carefully, setting his glass down with deliberate grace.