5

Camilla

The second Prescott’s hand closes around mine the show begins again. The fake smiles. The flawless posture. The perfect fucking lie. I let him guide me back inside, my spine ramrod straight, head high. The gala pulses around us, champagne laughter, violins humming softly, flashes of expensive smiles captured by cameras like insects to velvet.

The Sutton family in their natural habitat.

I spot my mother first.

Celeste St. Louis. Queen of everything. Hair sleek, skin glowing, pearls dripping effortlessly around a neck that’s never bowed to anyone. She’s laughing at something Nate Ashburgh whispers. Her profile so perfectly sculpted it looks like an ad campaign. She wields grace like a blade, cutting deep and clean without ever breaking a sweat.

Old Creole blood, born in mansions built by ancestors who survived history rather than bent to it. Black Southernaristocracy that owns rooms they were once forbidden to enter. She wears legacy like armor, defiance in her bones.

Next to her stands my father, Charlatan Sutton. White, Ivy-League, cold as marble columns, calm as inherited wealth. Their marriage was a corporate merger, Black excellence and old white money, strategically woven together until it looked like harmony.

Clarissa stands beside them, exactly where she’s supposed to be, comfortably settled into the life mapped out for her. She’s perfectly content in her careful engagement, her soft laughter genuine, her posture relaxed as she lightly touches Nate’s arm. She fits into this world effortlessly, a Sutton who never questions her place.

Then she sees me.

Her smile widens instantly, polished but fragile, a practiced warmth masking the faint anxiety beneath. It’s genuine in its own way, Clarissa loves me fiercely, even if we don’t always understand each other, but it’s tempered by quiet caution, a gentle plea for me to continue to fit into the mold. Nate looks up, his gaze cool, sharp, instantly taking in my face, then Prescott’s possessive hand gripping my waist. His stare slides lower, slower, as if he can guess exactly how far I’ve stepped outside the lines tonight.

“Darling,” my mother’s voice cuts smoothly through the tension, each syllable honeyed poison. “Where exactly did you run off to?”

“Needed some air,” I say lightly. Effortlessly. Empty.

She lifts an eyebrow slightly. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity mixed with suspicion. “Air. That explains your flushed cheeks, I suppose.”

Prescott doesn’t even glance at me, his voice mild, but deliberately pointed. “She was talking to someone. In the lounge.”

His words drop quietly, deliberately.

My father turns toward me, his gaze snapping from bored to razor-sharp in an instant. “Who?”

Not protective. Assessing risk. Calculating damage.

“I don’t know,” I answer flatly. “He didn’t offer his name.”

My mother’s smile stiffens like porcelain. “Camila. You know how important appearances are. You can’t simply—”

“I wasn’t seen,” I say, voice sharper now. “And I don’t recall needing permission to speak to people!”

Charlatan exhales through his nose, clearly irritated. “This is not the time to test us.”

Test us.

As if I’m a product they’re trying to market.

As if my body, my choices, my future is all some campaign pitch I keep fucking up by breathing.

“I’m not testing you,” I say. “I’m just existing.”

“Well, try to exist more quietly,” Celeste hisses, her smile never budging. “And for God’s sake, stop drawing attention to yourself especially with the campaign coming. And Prescott’s name attached to yours—”

“We’re not engaged,” I snap, too sharp, too fast.

The moment crackles.

Clarissa’s hand slips around my arm like a shackle disguised as affection.

“Don’t make this a thing,” she whispers.

Too late.

Every molecule of my skin still remembers his voice.

You’ve been desperate for someone who won’t apologize for the filthy things they want to do to you…

You’re dying to know how it feels to have a man grip your hair and show you exactly what it means to beg.

The memory claws up my spine like a fever.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, “I need to use the restroom.”

I feel like I’m underwater again. Every word muffled. My skin too tight.

I step away before they can stop me.

Prescott calls my name, but it’s distant. Hollow. Background noise behind the thunder in my chest.

I don’t know where I’m going…until I do.

Near the bar, a server intercepts me.

Black suit. Polished. Discreet. The Stratford’s crest gleams on his lapel.

He doesn’t speak.

Just extends his hand.

A keycard.

And a folded piece of thick, matte stationery.

Then he’s gone before I can breathe, before I can ask anything, before I can stop myself.

I look down at the card first.

PH-1.

The penthouse.

I unfold the note slowly, feeling the smooth, heavy paper between trembling fingertips.

A single line.

Clean, precise, devastatingly deliberate:

Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what you want.

— K.

My breath snags in my throat, a vicious tug low in my belly.

K. One letter. Sharp, controlled, utterly certain it owns me already. My heartbeat pulses viciously in my ears, and suddenly--I’m breathing him in again. Dark eyes, whispered threats, promises dripping with sin and possession. I close my eyes for a heartbeat, feeling every sharp, dark word burrow beneath my skin, igniting every nerve, crawling down my spine like fingertips dipped in poison and honey.

One night. You, on your knees, that perfect mouth stretched around my cock, finally tasting something worth your pride.

His voice is still inside me, rough and sinful and unbearably confident. I can feel the phantom heat of his breath grazing my ear, sliding lower, tracing promises down the curve of my throat, down my spine, straight between my thighs.

My palm tightens around the penthouse keycard, the sleek black plastic digging into my skin like its weight feels like ten thousand secrets. Ten thousand sins.

This is reckless.

Dangerous.

Everything I’m supposed to hate.

God help me… it’s exactly what I crave.

I lift my head sharply, eyes scanning the ballroom, searching for him instinctively, urgently. My pulse races, chest squeezing as if he’s right here, watching from the shadows, savoring the way my composure splinters--piece by carefully crafted piece.

But he’s gone.

Or hidden.

Or worse…watching from somewhere I can’t see.

Waiting to see if I’m brave enough or reckless enough to meet him in the dark.

“Camila?”

Prescott’s voice slices through the thick fog of my spiraling thoughts, jarring me back into reality. I spin sharply, heart lodged in my throat, fingers clenching the keycard and note tighter, hidden behind my palm.

His eyes are slightly narrowed, brows drawn tight in a mild frown of annoyance. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lie forcing a perfectly polished smile. Fake. Empty. A mask slipping back into place with practiced ease.

His gaze flicks down briefly, landing on my clenched fist. Suspicion flickers behind his polite expression. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I reply instantly, effortlessly, every syllable a careful deception. “Just the valet ticket. I left something in the car.”

Prescott hesitates, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he simply nods, mouth pressed into a thin, impatient line. “Hurry back, Camila. I’ve humored you long enough tonight.”

I stiffen at the sharp edge buried beneath Prescott’s carefully chosen words.

Humored me.

Like a child testing boundaries, not the woman he’s going to marry.

I meet his gaze, jaw clenched tight beneath my practiced smile. “Of course. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you any further.”

His eyes flicker, irritation tempered by mild surprise. Prescott Caldera isn’t used to me pushing back. He expects quiet, controlled obedience, he expects my silence.

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining the night, Prescott.” My voice drips sugar, “After all, your image is everything, isn’t it?”

He stiffens slightly, irritation flashing behind that practiced calm. “Our image, Camila.”

“Of course,” I murmur. “How could I forget?” My heart pounds violently beneath my ribs, a trapped bird thrashing inside me, desperate for escape. Prescott leans closer, voice dropping even lower, the threat beneath his polished exterior finally exposed.

"Don't push me tonight. I'm not in the mood for your games."

My games.