Page 42 of Corrupting Camille

“Charles.” I match his grip, my own smile perfectly polite, perfectly empty. “The pleasure’s mine.”

We move through the sprawling estate, footsteps echoing softly across a marble floor polished to a mirror-like sheen. Lunch awaits on the terrace, a meticulous affair overlooking manicured gardens that stretch into oblivion, interrupted only by the distant shimmer of ocean on the horizon. Jazz hums softlyfrom hidden speakers, background noise meant to soothe nerves and mask true intentions. Two security guards stand at discreet posts, one of them, a sharp-eyed man built like a weapon, locking eyes with me briefly before quickly looking away. Smart enough to sense danger. Smart enough not to invite it.

Charles sips vintage Bordeaux, watching me over the rim of his glass, letting silence stretch, testing me. I don’t speak first. “I’ve been monitoring your acquisitions,” he finally says, breaking the quiet with deliberate ease. “Quietly gaining shares in Sinclair Media. Interesting approach.”

I hold his gaze steadily. “Strategic investments.”

He lifts a brow, amused. “And do you plan to stay quietly strategic or will this become something louder?” I meet his stare, letting the edge of a smile touch my mouth. “That depends entirely on how useful ‘loud’ becomes.” He sets his glass down gently, calculating. “Sinclair Media isn’t just a business. It’s my family’s legacy.”

“I’m aware.” His eyes darken fractionally.

“Then you know we don’t welcome outsiders who try to twist our legacy into something else.”

“I’m not here to twist it,” I say calmly. “I’m here to protect it. Sinclair Media is strong, respected. But your foundation, the philanthropic heart, is hemorrhaging money. Ghost initiatives in Morocco, mismanagement in Harlem. Millions vanish through shell companies hidden offshore.”

Charles goes rigid, face carefully neutral, but his eyes betray his surprise. “You’re well-informed,” he says slowly, voice colder now.

“Always.” I lean in slightly, voice dropping, turning sharper. “Your daughter’s too busy painting walls and holding hands at shelters to notice the blood dripping quietly from her foundation. But you noticed. You chose to ignore it. How long do you think your reputation holds when someone less charitablethan me uncovers this?” Charles’s jaw tenses visibly, fists tightening subtly on the table edge.

“Camille won’t allow interference…”

“Camille doesn’t know she needs it,” I interrupt quietly, ruthlessly. “Her good intentions blind her. She’s exposed, Charles. You know it, and now, I know it.”

He leans back slowly, eyes narrowing to slits of icy calculation. “What exactly do you want?”

I don’t answer right away. I let it stretch, three slow beats of silence, enough to let the weight settle in the air between us, thick and sharp as broken glass. Charles watches me, waiting. Waiting for the next move. The mistake he keeps making is thinking we’re playing the same game. “We both know where this ends,” Finally I say, voice low, even. “So let’s stop pretending this is about negotiation.”

His jaw twitches. “What do you want, Kane?”

I lean forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked on his face like a sniper lining up a shot. “I want access,” I say. “To Sinclair Media’s internal board. I want full review rights on all Foundation expenditures. I want to install my own operations analyst inside Camille’s division.”

He laughs once, short and sharp. “That’s not access. That’s takeover.”

“It’s protection.” My voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t break. It cuts. “From the lawsuits you’d drown in if a real auditor saw those numbers. From the collapse that’s coming the moment someone pulls the right thread. You think I’m dangerous? Wait until the Feds start sniffing around your off-book vendors in East Harlem.” He narrows his eyes.

“You’d go that route?” He narrows his eyes, suspicion mingling with a subtle strain of disbelief.

I smile slowly, deliberately, like a knife drawn leisurely from its sheath. “Charles,” I say calmly, leaning back and adjustingmy cuffs as if the idea itself is mundane, “you’re misreading the board entirely. I’m not here to threaten you, I’m here because I don’t have to threaten you. You’re smart enough to know exactly what I’m capable of. And what I’m capable of should scare you far more than some federal audit.” He stares at me, silent, assessing. The carefully practiced composure in his gaze wavers, cracks just slightly. He wasn’t expecting this, at least not so blatantly, not so fucking ruthlessly.

“You realize what you’re asking is unacceptable,” Charles replies finally, voice tightly controlled. “It’s essentially handing you control of Camille’s entire division.”

I tilt my head slightly, as if considering his objection for the first time. “Your daughter isn’t the issue here. Camille’s intentions are admirable, her vision commendable. But intentions don’t protect her, or you, from consequences. Right now, her foundation’s exposure threatens everything you’ve built. And frankly, Charles, it threatens me. I don’t leave loose ends.”

His jaw twitches again, anger simmering just beneath the practiced façade. “My daughter is not a loose end.”

“She’s collateral,” I clarify bluntly, watching the words land like blows. “And unless you accept my terms, she becomes a liability.”

His hand flexes on the stem of his glass. A silent tremor. Barely noticeable, unless you’re watching for it.

And I am.

Because I know the type. Charles Sinclair is used to holding court, dictating outcomes, not absorbing threats. But this is the moment he realizes he’s not sitting across from a man interested in handshakes or compromise. He’s sitting across from a tactician with a loaded gun aimed at everything he’s ever built.

His eyes are colder now. Distant. Like he’s scanning for an angle he missed.

“You’re not going to touch Camille,” he says quietly.

It’s not a warning. It’s a wish.