Page 279 of Corrupting Camille

I do the same with his other foot, tears sliding silently down my cheeks, blending with the water, washing away a grief that feels endless, a love that feels bottomless.

I look up at him through the steam, through the pain, through the grief we both carry. “I love you,” I whisper fiercely, unshakably. “I love every broken piece of you, Kane Rivera. Every shadow. Every scar.”

He stares down at me, eyes glassy, the hard edges softening at last. He reaches down, fingers trembling as they brush away my tears, lifting me gently to my feet, holding me close enough to feel his heartbeat beneath my own.

He presses his forehead against mine, breathing harshly. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers brokenly. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything,” I say quietly, fiercely. “Every good thing. Every piece of love. You deserve a home to come back to. You deserve us.”

He kisses me then, slow, deep, devastatingly raw. A kiss that tastes of grief and hope, regret and redemption, each breath pulled from somewhere so deep inside us that I tremble. It’s a kiss meant to bind broken pieces, to mend the cracks in our souls, to promise forever, even when forever hurts.

My arms tighten around him, my fingers threading gently through his hair, my whispers soft against his mouth, grounding him. “You’re home now.”

And that’s when it happens…he breaks.

His walls shatter completely, the carefully built fortress around his heart collapsing in slow, aching waves. Kane sinks into me, shoulders trembling, body shaking, and I hold him fiercely, desperately, refusing to let him sink beneath the weight of everything he’s carried alone.

“Let it go,” I whisper gently, firmly. “I’ve got you.”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, hands gripping me like I’m the only thing left to hold onto. And I hold him right back with every ounce of strength I’ve ever possessed.

Because he’s home now.

And I won’t ever let him drown as long as there’s breath in me…and even then I’d fight death just to be with him.

***

The morning of the funeral is gray, the sky bruised and heavy, as if even Miami can’t bear to let this day happen. No sunlight. No warmth. Just clouds hanging low, pressing down on us like grief itself.

Rosa insisted on Cartagena. The place Diego took his first breath, and where now he’ll take his last rest. Where memories linger in shadowed alleyways and sun-baked cobblestone streets. Where family ghosts whisper through open plazas and hidden doorways. Where Kane first learned what it meant to bleed and survive and fight.

We flew out in one of Kane’s private jets at dawn, silent except for the steady hum of engines. Kane sat beside me the whole way, gripping my hand tightly, his thumb sliding restlessly overmy knuckles. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. His silence told me everything: pain he couldn’t voice, violence he couldn’t erase, guilt he’d never outrun.

Now we stand in the mausoleum, pale stone, wrought iron, white gardenias filling the air with sweet, suffocating sorrow. Only family is allowed inside.

Camille Rivera.

They said my name at the gate, giving me a title I haven’t yet worn openly, haven’t yet claimed fully.

It echoes through me, achingly profound. Terrifyingly real.

Lucia sits in the front, curled tightly against Rosa’s side, a black ribbon tied carefully in her wild curls. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. She’s different now. Still fierce, still strong, but older, colder. Grief ages you faster than anything.

Lena hovers close by, a shadow keeping vigil, protective but silent.

Kane hasn’t moved from his brother’s casket. He stands rigid, like marble, head lowered, fists clenched tight at his sides, knuckles white. He wears a black suit, immaculate.

Joaquin murmurs quietly with the priest, arranging final details, while Javi guards the back like a sentinel, eyes sweeping restlessly, wary even now.

I move quietly, coming to Kane’s side. Our shoulders brush. He doesn’t startle, doesn’t react.

“He would’ve wanted this,” I whisper softly. “His family together. His daughters safe.”

Kane’s jaw flexes sharply, muscle ticking violently beneath his skin. “He deserved more.”

I touch his arm gently. “He had more. He had you. He had all of you.”

Kane takes a ragged breath and then slowly steps forward, reaching inside his suit jacket. He pulls out something small andsilver, gleaming softly under pale, dim lights, a heavy silver cross on a worn chain.