Page 130 of Their Arrangement

Camille’s twenty-fourth birthday.

We rented out a rooftop. Real private. Private waitstaff. Champagne towers. Music so smooth you could taste it.

Camille wore black. Red lips. A crown in everything but name.

And she brought Cloe.

No warning. No announcement. Just walked her in like she’d always belonged.

Cloe wore a black dress that didn’t quite fit. Too tight across the chest. Straps that dug into her shoulders. Secondhand. Borrowed. She smiled too much. Laughed too loud. Nervous. Eager.

Camille gave her the shoes. I remember because the sticker was still on the bottom when she crossed her legs.

She sat beside Camille and looked out at the crowd like she didn’t know where she belonged in it—but hoped someone would give her permission to stay.

And she watched Camille. Not jealous. Not resentful. But wide-eyed. Hungry. Like she wanted to be her. No—like she wanted to be wanted the way Camille was.

She laughed too hard at something Royal said. Camille reached out and touched her hand. Squeezed it. And I remember thinking?—

If someone held her too tightly, she’d shatter.

She didn’t know how to carry wealth. Didn’t know how to wear power. But she wanted it. Desperately.

Now?

She’s learning.

And the hunger is still there.

But so issomething else.

She doesn’t wear desperation anymore. She wears desire. She walks through the floor like she knows every man who sees her wants to ruin her. And the worst part?

I want her more now than I ever wanted anything. Even when she belonged to Camille. Even when Camille was the only good thing this family ever had. Even when I swore I’d never touch that kind of want again.

I hadn’t thought about her that night in years. But now, after watching her twist in that chair today, thighs squeezed, lace soaked?

I can’tnotremember it. Because it’s the same look she wore that night. The quiet hunger. The ache to be seen. To matter.

The way her eyes tracked the room—not like she wanted to belong, but like she was studying the price of admission.

She looked at Camille like she was art and royalty and God all in one. Not jealous. Not resentful. Just desperate to be touched by something brighter. And now?

Now that hunger had grown teeth. Now she walks like power has started to fit her. And it should make me back the fuck off. It should make me look away. But all it does is make me want her more. More than anything I’ve wanted since Camille.

And that thought?

That thought burned.

Because Camille was the only good thing this family had.

And I was corrupt enough to want the girl who used to orbit her.

I couldn’t stay in the building. Not another fucking second. Not with her scent still clinging to my shirt. That perfume—light, powdery, soft—followed me down the hallway like a hand pressing between my shoulder blades.

I breathed her. Tasted her. Felt her in the gaps between every breath.

The elevator opened. I stepped in alone, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I punched the ground floor like the numbers could answer for me. I should’ve dragged her into my office. Should’ve slammed the door. Made her say it. Say she was wet. Say she wanted to be touched. Saythank youwhile she shook.