Page 143 of Corrupting Camille

She shifts closer, tilting her face toward mine, her eyes a gentle plea. “Tell me about him.”

The breath leaves my lungs. But I surrender the truth anyway, letting her glimpse a version of me buried so deep it hurts. “He was Colombian. Ran cartel ports out of Miami. Brilliant. Ruthless. Everything calculated. He taught me chess, taught me how power truly works. He believed apologies were worthless. If you fucked up, you showed remorse in action, never words.”

She listens. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. She simply waits, steady, unafraid, as I open veins in front of her.

“My mother,” I continue, voice scraping lower, darker, “she was white. Beautiful and breakable, like porcelain. She loved the danger, the thrill, until one day she didn’t. Left when I was ten. Vanished without a goodbye, without looking back.”

She presses her palm firmer against my chest, grounding me, holding me here in this moment, in this twisted honesty.

“My father died in front of me. Broad fucking daylight. We were stepping out of a café in Little Havana. No warning. No hiding. They emptied twenty rounds into his chest right there on the sidewalk.” My voice goes cold, detached, recounting facts etched in my bones. “I didn’t scream. Didn’t run. I just counted. One. Two. Three…watched every bullet tear through him, watched his blood spread across concrete.”

Her breath hitches quietly, fingers freeze on my skin.

“Diego’s family took me in afterward,” I murmur. “He was my father’s closest ally, a brother in everything but blood. They gave me food, shelter, time to heal quietly. Diego knew thecode, the cost of loyalty. On my sixteenth birthday, he didn’t ask questions. Just handed me a knife and let me take care of unfinished business.”

She holds her breath, waiting silently.

“I tracked down the man who gave the kill order. Found him in the back room of a Miami club, slit his throat from ear to ear. Left before his men were alerted. But I eventually came back for the rest."

Her lips part slightly. No horror. No judgment. Just quiet acceptance, her eyes wide and locked onto mine like she sees the darkest parts of me and won’t look away.

“That night was just the beginning,” I whisper.

“Of what?” she breathes, voice quiet but clear, stepping even closer.

I lean in, voice hard, relentless. “Of me. I don’t break, Camille. I don’t yield. If I want something, I take it. And once it’s mine, I never let go.”

She nods slowly, her eyes shimmering with quiet understanding flaring like fire. “I know.”

Her gaze turns darker, a shadow passes behind her eyes, and then softly, dangerously, she breathes his name:

“Douglas Everhart.”

It’s not just a name. It’s a trigger, a fucking detonation. It tears through me, breaking bone, tearing muscle, of pure unfiltered rage roaring up inside me. Before I realize I’ve even moved, I’m in front of her, hands cupping her face, firm, possessive, tethering her to me like she’s the only thing holding me from the edge. My voice drops: “Tell me. Every fucking detail.”

Her throat moves delicately as she swallows, lashes flutter shut as she braces against whatever storm she thinks is coming. When her eyes finally open again, they’re raw, not wet with tears, but haunted with truths she’s kept buried far too long.

I was ten,“ she whispers. “On my family’s yacht. He was there. Everyone smiled at him. Trusted him. Worshipped him.”

“It happened more than once. The first time... he found me by the pool. I was alone. He complimented my bathing suit. Said I was beautiful. Said I was special...”

Her voice thins to a blade’s edge.

“He said I had a pretty mouth… for a little girl.”

She’s folding inward now, pulling away like it burns to speak.

“Took my hand. Sat me on his lap. I didn’t know...”

That final syllable splits her wide open. Not a confession…a hemorrhage. She pulls back sharply, like I’ve turned molten, radioactive, a threat she needs distance from. As if her truth shattered the ground beneath our feet.

Something inside me fractures. Violently. Beautifully. Not a crack, an awakening.

The monster in me doesn’t rise; it tears free, clawing its way out with teeth and nails, rabid and starving for blood.

Her voice is thin as smoke, haunted and wavering, forcing itself to finish what should’ve never begun.

“The second time,” she whispers, her words barely audible, “he crept into my room.”