4

Camilla

He smiles darkly, lethally, cutting straight through the delicate lies I’ve carefully built around myself. “I know you hate polite lies. I know you’re sick of pretty, spineless boys with soft hands who need permission slips and gentle reassurances every time they touch you. Men who handle you like glass, terrified you’ll shatter. Men exactly like Prescott Caldera who’d apologize after fucking you, never realizing that's exactly why you're still starving.”

My inhale is harsh, aching with recognition, raw with truth. Desire pulses shamefully between my thighs, loud and undeniable.

“That’s my boyfriend you’re insulting.” I say, voice sharp, defiant.

He reclines slowly, spreading his arms along the back of the chair, utterly unbothered, infuriatingly cocky. “I wasn’t insulting him, Camila. I was insulting you for pretending he’s enough.”

I bite down hard on my lower lip, anger tangling viciously with lust in my chest. “You’re so fucking arrogant.”

“I’m right.”

I lean in closer, pulse hammering, eyes blazing fiercely. “And if I decide you’re wrong?”

His smile turns icy, savage, ruthless. “Then I’ll prove it until you can’t lie to yourself anymore.”

The air ignites between us, vicious, electric, unbearable.

One more breath. One more word. One push…

“Camila?”

My spine snaps straight, blood turning to ice at the familiar voice cutting through our little war.

Prescott.

Kingston

“Camila?”

The voice slices through our tension like ice.

She stiffens instantly, mask falling back into place. Every raw, exposed nerve disappears behind practiced composure. She turns slowly, effortlessly, giving Prescott Caldera the warm, empty smile of a woman trained to lie since birth.

"Prescott," she murmurs. "I didn't see you come in."

He glances from her to me, assessing me in less than a second. Another privileged asshole with clean hands and weak wrists. He smiles politely, eyes carefully blank, but there’s disdain lurking just behind the calculated indifference.

Men like him see men like me as threats, short-term distractions for women they can’t truly keep. Men who’d never dirty their expensive suits or their precious family names.

He takes her hand possessively, subtly staking his claim. "They're asking about you," he says quietly, the tone deceptively gentle, possessive beneath the polite sheen.

Camila hesitates, just for a fraction of a heartbeat, eyes darting back to mine. The hesitation screams louder than anywords ever could. She’s not ready to go. Not ready to pretend she wasn’t seconds from falling.

But she does it anyway, sliding back into her role like a perfectly choreographed dance. "Of course," she says softly. "I was just getting some air."

Prescott finally shifts his attention fully to me, arching a brow in cold inquiry. "I don’t believe we’ve met."

I lift my glass slowly, letting silence drag, thick and suffocating. Letting him wonder if I’ll even bother responding.

“We haven’t.”

The air thickens. Prescott’s jaw clenches briefly, entitled, irritated. A rich boy raised to believe the world belongs to him, and that men like me exist only as shadows in the corners of his polished empire.

He forces a polite smile, hollow and perfectly rehearsed. “Well, enjoy your evening.”

My gaze slides slowly back to Camila, deliberately tracing every delicate curve before settling on her eyes. Her lips part, just slightly, fury and desire warring openly behind that carefully perfected mask.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Prescott stiffens, “We should head back inside,” he says to Camila, voice sharpened by entitlement. “Your parents have been asking for you.”

I watch her carefully, seeing how her spine snaps taut at the subtle command in his tone. Anger ripples beneath her perfect façade, restrained but unmistakable. How often has she swallowed commands disguised as concern?

But she lifts her chin, defiant. “Go ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”

Interesting.

Prescott flicks another suspicious glance my way, his voice tightening like a leash. “Camila, people are noticing your absence.”

My knuckles flex, itching for violence. I don’t move, though. I don’t speak.

Not my fight.

Not yet.

She pauses. Just a heartbeat too long. I catch the subtle grind of her teeth, the split-second flash of rebellion quickly masked. She thinks she hides it well but I see everything. Every carefully concealed fracture, every hint of defiance simmering beneath the surface.

This woman is cracking open, one reckless thread at a time.

And I fully intend to rip her wide apart.

She releases a slow breath, carefully controlled. “Of course,” she finally whispers, surrender slicing through her voice. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Prescott nods sharply, smug and predictable, tossing me one final glance, a warning, a threat. Meaningless posturing from a man used to thinking himself untouchable. Then he’s gone, slipping back into the polished perfection of their ballroom.

I let the silence swell, heavy and dangerous. Then, softly, mockingly, I break it. “So that’s the future senator.”

Camila turns slowly, eyes burning with a heat I’ve been dying to see, anger, humiliation, a hunger she hates herself for feeling.

“Careful,” she bites out, each syllable edged like broken glass. “He’s not someone you should underestimate.”

My lips curve into a slow, lazy smile as I step closer, invading her space until her perfume curls into my lungs, orange blossom, vanilla, something sweet and seductive that clings to my senses like a secret I haven't cracked yet. Expensive, delicate, addictive. "I don’t underestimate anyone, Camila. Least of all men who think they own something that’s already mine.”

She lifts her chin, jaw tight, eyes defiant despite the telltale flutter of her pulse against her throat. “And what exactly do you think you own?”

I lean closer, until her breath is mine to steal, voice pitched dangerously low. “Tonight? You. Tomorrow?” I shrug slowly, deliberately cruel. “I’m a selfish fucker…I’ll decide later.”

Her eyes flash, fire and fury barely restrained. “I don’t belong to you.”

“Yet,” I whisper, quiet violence wrapped in a promise.

Her breath catches sharply, pulse slamming wildly beneath her skin. Her anger is electric, a storm barely controlled, sparking deliciously behind her careful restraint.

I step aside, nodding toward the ballroom doors, my voice deceptively soft. “Better run along, princesa. Your leash is tightening.”

Her fists clench, rage blazing openly for a split second. I brace myself, almost hoping she’ll slap me, give me the excuse to pin her to the wall, to teach her exactly what happens when good girls snap.

But she holds still, meeting my stare head-on. Furious, proud, and finally something darker, curiosity edged with surrender. The dangerous thrill of stepping toward a cliff and deciding falling might be worth it.

My smirk widens slowly, dangerously. “See you soon.”

She hesitates, breath trapped between lips I fully intend to claim, before finally turning sharply, shoulders set in furious defiance. But I catch the hesitation in her step, the way she slows just slightly, tilting her head to hear if I’ll call her back. The hitch of her breath as she refuses to glance over her shoulder.

Camila already knows she’s mine, and by morning, she’ll understand exactly how thoroughly I intend to dismantle her world.