Page 86 of Corrupting Camille

I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. Lena grins triumphantly, gesturing dramatically with her glass. “And that’s why you need us, babe. Someone has to be honest. Can you imagine spending your whole life pretending navy blazers are a personality?”

Noelle shivers dramatically. “Oh god, nightmare fuel.”

They laugh, and despite the ache in my chest, despite the dark, unread screen of my phone, I finally feel myself relaxing. Lena always knows exactly how to distract me, how to ease the storm raging just beneath my carefully maintained exterior.She’s always seen through me, past the Sinclair name, past my practiced smiles and carefully worded lies.

She just doesn’t know the truth tonight. Doesn’t know that the reason my pulse spikes each time my phone lights up isn’t Preston’s boring, predictable texts. It’s Kane’s silence, deafening and torturous.

“So,” Lena announces brightly, refilling her glass. “Enough of Camille’s sad beige romance. Let’s talk about mine. Because there isn’t one, and frankly, that’s unacceptable.”

I laugh softly, grateful for the reprieve, even if I know it’s temporary. “You realize your standards are impossible, right?”

“Nope,” Lena replies decisively. “I just need a man who’s taller than me in heels, has at least three tattoos, a real watch…Noelle, take notes, and can survive dinner with my mom.”

“Good luck,” Noelle says dryly. “Does this mythical creature also have a trust fund?”

“Preferably,” Lena deadpans. “But honestly, at this point, I’d settle for someone who doesn’t Snapchat me gym selfies and dick pics at midnight.”

I shake my head, smiling genuinely for the first time tonight. Lena’s chaos was exactly the distraction I needed. Exactly the kind of fierce loyalty and unapologetic honesty my life lacked everywhere else.

For tonight, maybe I can forget Kane Rivera and his haunting absence. Maybe I can just pretend to be the Camille Sinclair who has it all together, the Camille who isn’t still craving a man she knows will destroy her.

Kane

I stop at Diego’s before flying back to New York.

Not for safety. Not for quiet.

Because this place, this smaller, sharper-edged version of my own compound, is the only corner of hell that still feels like home. Where the ghosts don’t judge me for the blood on my hands, because every man here is drowning in his own sins.

Diego already waiting swings open the gate before I reach it. Joaquin’s cousin is heavier now, the lines in his face etched deeper. Beard flecked with silver, eyes still black as gunmetal. He steps toward me, wrapping a calloused hand around the back of my neck, pulling me into a brutal embrace.

“Mi hermano,” he murmurs roughly, words laced with smoke and age.

I grip him back just as tight. “Diego.”

No other words needed.

Inside, the house breathes like old wounds, tile floors, faded family photos, Virgin Mary candles flickering next to bullet casings on the mantel. Cartel, Colombian, and Catholic, all twisted together like barbed wire. The air smells like arepas and gun oil, incense and lingering cigarette smoke.

It smells like my childhood.

This is home.

Rosa sees me and crosses the room instantly, pulling me into an embrace that feels like a fucking lifeline. She kisses my cheek, cups my face between her palms, no judgment, no questions. She knows the blood on my hands. Always has.

“¿Tienes hambre, cariño?” She eyes me sharply, already opening the fridge, ignoring my dismissive grunt.

Are you hungry, sweetheart?

“No estoy aquí por comida, Rosa.”

I’m not here for food, Rosa.

She tuts softly, muttering something about orgullo estúpido, but squeezes my arm gently before backing away. Rosa’s warmth always cuts deeper than knives, grace I never deserved and still don’t know how to handle.

I drop onto the worn couch. The springs protest under my weight, old leather groaning like bones in the dark. Diego pours rum without asking. Real shit, unfiltered and burning straight down, harsh enough to taste like penance.

“Ramos?” Diego asks flatly, swirling his glass. No hesitation. No dance.