Page 73 of Corrupting Camille

When she finally turns toward me, her eyes are wide, glassy with unshed tears, the edges raw from rubbing them dry. She sees me now, really sees me, not the polished Sinclair heiress, but the terrified child beneath. Broken, exposed, bleeding out truths I’d hidden for so many years.

“I tried telling,” I say, voice breaking again, the confession searing hot and shameful in my chest. “But no one really wanted to listen. It was easier to pretend nothing happened. Easier to pretend I made it up. To just...lie. It took a really long time before I understood it wasn’t my fault. And whatever happened to you…whatever horrible thing you carry around like a secret….it’s not your fault either.”

Her lips tremble violently, silent tears spilling down her flushed cheeks, leaving dark, wet trails on her pale skin. Her pain feels like my own, tearing open old wounds I thought had scarred over, letting them bleed all over again.

“I didn’t think…” Her voice breaks into a quiet sob, ragged and raw. “I didn’t think anyone could ever believe me.”

Slowly, carefully, I inch closer, my own hands shaking. I don’t touch her, I don’t dare. Instead, I let the warmth of my body bridge the space between us, offering a silent comfort I never knew.

“I believe you,” I whisper fiercely, the words burning like fire, igniting something powerful, something healing in my chest. “I believe every single word.”

She breaks then, collapsing inward, sobbing uncontrollably. Her shoulders shake as the dam she’d built around herself finally crumbles, her pain spilling out like poison she’s held inside for far too long. I don’t touch her. I don’t speak again.

I just sit with her, steady and silent, offering her the strength and safety no one ever gave me.

Because nobody stayed for me. But I’ll stay for her.

Chapter Seven

Kane

She doesn’t show.

Not at four-thirty.

Not at four-thirty-five.

Not at four-fucking-thirty-seven.

Every second that ticks by isn’t just time, it’s a match head dragged across my nerves, sparking something sharp and volatile in my chest. The bourbon on the table sits untouched, golden and glowing, mocking me with its silence. My jaw flexes once. Twice. Hard enough I feel it crack.

She’s late.

Or she’s stupid.

Or she’s testing me.

None of these things end well for her.

I let her have those extra minutes, not because I’m generous, but because I like the feel of the tension. It feeds something dark inside me. Gives it teeth.

I stare at the door.

Then I stop staring at the door.

Then I pick up my phone.

I almost call her. Thumb hovering over her name, the compulsion sharp and immediate,where the fuck are you, Princesa?But I don’t press it. She’d like that. She’d think she got under my skin.

And she did.

But not the way she thinks.

I don’t chase.

I don’t beg.

I don’t play nice.