Page 120 of Corrupting Camille

He knows about Douglas.

He promised me vengeance. Promised me blood and justice and retribution, even as I pleaded with him not to. But I wasn’t naïve enough to think my words would ever truly stop him.

And then…he vanished.

Three weeks of crushing, ruthless silence.

Three weeks of stone-faced assistants and carefully constructed walls. Locked boardrooms. Urgent emails marked in red ink with the phrase that made my blood boil:

Pending approval from Mr. Rivera.

He’s stripped away every scrap of my control, invaded my foundation, my business, my fucking sanity. I can’t even take a breath without his signature.

And the worst part…the most twisted, cruel part…isn’t the power he wields.

It’s that he refuses to use it.

Because if Kane walked into my office tomorrow, arrogant and untouchable, flashing that infuriating smirk, holding out that goddamn pen like a challenge, at least I could fight him. I could scream, shove back, demand answers.

I could hate him properly.

Instead, I’m left chasing shadows. Silence. Cold. Calculated. Fucking cruel. His ghost haunts every breath.

I shove my phone across the bed. It skids, crashing to the floor, and I flinch at the sound.

I tuck my knees to my chest, hugging myself tight, as if I can make myself small enough to avoid the ache.

My teeth sink into my lip, sharp enough to produce blood.

Because I shouldn’t miss him.

I shouldn’t care where he is. Who he’s with.

Is he with someone else right now? Another woman, more beautiful, less broken? Is he touching her, tasting her, whispering filthy promises into her ear? Or worse…is it Ivy? Perfect curves, red lips, no complications.

My stomach twists sharply, pain and jealousy clawing viciously beneath my ribs. God, it hurts. Imagining him with someone else burns through my chest like acid.

And yet, I do it anyway. Over and over. Because Kane Rivera is the kind of poison you willingly drink, knowing exactly how it’ll ruin you from the inside out.

I press my forehead to my knees, fighting to steady my breath. Fighting the ache crawling under my skin.

I knew who he was. From the very first moment he looked at me and asked for my price, like I was something he could own. I knew exactly what he was.

And I still walked straight into his penthouse and let him destroy me.

Maybe I wanted him to.

I think about the control I used to have. My carefully constructed life, my composure, my polished exterior.

Now I flinch every time my phone vibrates.

Now I’m starving.

Isn’t that the cruelest part? That beneath the anger, beneath the betrayal, beneath every ounce of pain… I still want him to come back?

Still want him to show up at my door, uninvited, unrepentant.

Still want him to pin me against a wall and call me his Muñequita.