Page 3 of Corrupting Camille

But then his mouth curves.

Not a smile.

A threat dressed as one.

And I know… instinctively, that I’ve already lost whatever game this is.

Kane

They call it luxury.

I call it hunting grounds.

The Langford was built for men who confuse cash with class and mistresses with validation. Men whose greatest achievement is stitching their daddy issues into Brioni suits and calling it style. They swagger in, flashing Patek Philippes, whispering dirty promises to women whose faces change faster than their tax brackets. Perfect teeth. Empty eyes. Loud jewelry drowning out the quiet desperation of wives stuck at home, swallowing Xanax with Chardonnay for breakfast.

Twenty-five grand a night buys these men the illusion of control. A fantasy served up in polished crystal and silk sheets.

Idiots.

I let them play dress-up, let them toast their worthless deals, smile blandly as they swap wives, stocks, and dignity for a corner office and a few minutes feeling untouchable.

All the while, I’m the one writing the checks they cash, quietly pulling the strings until their egos choke them like silk ties tightened just a little too much. They pay me to feel powerful—not realizing I’ve already picked their bones clean.

Power doesn’t belong to the man with the loudest voice.

It belongs to the one with the deepest pockets.

And mine have no bottom.

They barely glance my way when I pass. They probably think I’m hired muscle or an ex-employee who couldn't cut it in their miserable little shark tank.

That’s the fun part.

Let them ignore the devil…so long as he’s wearing cufflinks.

The elevator doors open with a whisper.

Penthouse level.

I adjust mine, Tom Ford, black on black. No tie. Never a tie. Chokehold fashion for men who don’t know they’re already leashed.

I step into the storm.

Another fucking gala. Same glass cage, new set of gilded bars. Crystal and chatter. Strings in the corner playing some dead composer no one here actually gives a shit about. It all blurs together. Power diluted in champagne.

I don’t belong here.

But I own it.

They don’t know that.

The Langford was mine the second I ripped it from the Ashby estate portfolio five years ago. Silent acquisition. Five shell companies deep. Cash funneled through South American mining interests and a holding group in Zurich. No one questions the name on the deed because I made sure they can’t trace it.

I like it better this way.

They call this a playground for the elite.

They don’t realize the devil built this sandbox.