Page 85 of Corrupting Camille

“Nice try,” Lena scoffs. “But you’re still not off the hook. Is Preston finally locking it down, or are you about to have a midlife crisis at twenty-four?”

“Midlife?” Noelle wrinkles her nose, taking a sip of her drink. “God, is twenty-four considered midlife now? Kill me.”

“It is when you’re Camille Sinclair,” Lena quips, smirking wickedly. “She was born middle-aged.”

“Fuck off,” I laugh, finally relaxing enough to breathe. “Preston isn’t the issue. Things are…fine.”

“Fine?” Lena echoes, voice dripping disdain. “You realize that’s the least convincing word in the English language, right? Like, right up there with ‘I’ll pull out’ and ‘just the tip.’”

Noelle bursts into laughter, covering her mouth with a delicate hand as several people at nearby tables glance over. “Oh my God, Lena!”

“What?” Lena shrugs, smiling smugly. “I’m just saying, ‘fine’ doesn’t exactly scream passionate romance. Sounds more like you’re deciding between beige paint samples.”

“Maybe I like beige,” I mutter stubbornly, cheeks flaming.

“No, babe, you don’t,” Lena says decisively, eyeing me knowingly. “I’ve seen your lingerie drawer. Nothing beige there. It’s giving red-lace-and-regret vibes.”

“You’re impossible.” I roll my eyes again, desperately fighting off the grin tugging at my lips. Lena always saw straight throughmy bullshit. Always knew exactly how to peel back the polished, composed façade I’d spent my life perfecting.

“I know.” Lena smiles softly, eyes bright with genuine affection. “But you love me anyway. Now tell us why you’re eye-fucking your phone so hard, or I’ll assume it’s something scandalous and amazing.”

I bite my lip, stifling another smile, even as Kane’s dark eyes and whispered commands flash through my mind. What he’d done to me in his penthouse, what he’d done in the back of his Rolls Royce, still burned beneath my skin. Filthy. Unforgettable. And completely unshareable.

“It’s nothing scandalous,” I lie easily. “Just busy with…stuff.”

“Stuff,” Lena repeats, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Cam.”

Noelle taps her manicured nails impatiently on the tabletop. “Enough interrogation. New topic, please. I didn’t wear these heels tonight just to sit around psychoanalyzing Camille’s tragic love life.”

Lena huffs dramatically, flipping her wild curls back with a flourish. “Fine. Noelle, entertain us with your latest dating tragedy. Please tell me it’s even worse than the polo player who thought Gucci was a breed of dog.”

Noelle groans, slumping theatrically back against the booth. “You wish. This one wore a Patek Philippe watch, except it was fake and spelled ‘Philippe’ wrong. He said he bought it on a ‘business trip’ in Chinatown.”

Shoulders shaking, I nearly choke on my laughter, shoulders shaking as Lena’s head drops forward, a defeated sigh escaping her lips. “Truly tragic. Why do all your dates sound like bad Netflix shows?”

“Because my taste is worse than Camille’s right now,” Noelle says pointedly, wiggling her brows at me.

I lift my drink in a sarcastic toast. “Impossible. No one’s taste is worse than mine, remember? I’m beige and boring.”

“True story,” Lena agrees smugly, raising her glass. “To Camille, our favorite emotional disaster in designer heels.”

“Cheers,” Noelle giggles, clinking her glass against Lena’s.

“You guys suck,” I mutter, hiding a reluctant grin behind my cocktail glass.

“You love us.” Lena’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Besides, someone has to save you from turning into your mother.”

I shudder dramatically. “Low blow, Lena.”

“Necessary blow,” she counters, smiling unapologetically. “We’re not letting you lose yourself in some vanilla life where beige is considered spicy.”

Noelle leans closer, blue eyes twinkling wickedly. “Maybe Preston’s secretly kinky. Like, closet red room vibes. Or at least a dark grey room. Maybe he’s secretly edgy.”

I choke on my laugh. “The edgiest thing about Preston Caldwell is that he once wore a navy blazer instead of black to a fundraiser. My mother almost fainted.”

Lena snorts into her drink, shaking her head. “Girl, I’d die. Honestly, it’s tragic. Tell me again why we like Preston?”

“We don’t,” Noelle whispers conspiratorially. “We just pretend because Camille seems determined to like him.”