My voice feels small. “I don’t know. Go back to my cage. Pretend everything’s normal. Hope to God Preston never finds out.”
Lena snorts softly. “Yeah, right. Like you can put this shit back in the box.”
“I have to try,” I whisper. “Or my parents…”
“Will do what? Disown you? Girl, please.” Lena rolls her eyes dramatically. “They’ll threaten, but they need you way more than you need them. And Preston? You’re a trophy, Cam. Not a person. Don’t kid yourself.”
My chest tightens painfully. “I wish it was that easy.”
She shrugs again, smoothly navigating the Range Rover through the gates of my family’s estate. “It never is. That’s what makes life messy. And interesting.”
The manor looms ahead, imposing, immaculate, everything about it screams expectation, pressure, suffocation.
Everything I’m supposed to be.
Lena stops in front of the massive front doors, turning to face me fully, eyes gentle. “You gonna be okay?”
I look at her, my heart aching, my body exhausted, my soul raw. “Honestly? No.”
Her expression softens. “But you will be.”
I swallow hard, nodding slowly. “I hope so.”
She squeezes my hand tightly. “Remember who you are, Camille. And who you’re not.”
“I’ll try.”
I step out of the car, legs shaking beneath me, heart hammering violently in my chest. Lena’s window slides down, her voice drifting gently out into the darkness.
“And, Cam?”
I glance back, swallowing thickly. “Yeah?”
She grins mischievously. “Next time you decide to blow your life up, maybe invite me along? Your life’s way more entertaining than mine.”
I choke out a soft laugh, wiping tears away. “Deal.”
She gives a wave, elegant nails glinting under the porch lights. “Good luck, bitch. Call me after the meltdown.”
The window slides back up, and I watch her sleek SUV glide away, taillights fading down the driveway, leaving me standing alone outside Sinclair Manor.
My prison. My home.
But as I walk toward the heavy double doors, my fingers gripping tight around the tote Lena gave me for Kane’s clothes, I know it deep in my bones, this isn’t home anymore.
Home is cedar and bergamot and whiskey-soaked kisses. It’s tattooed skin pressed roughly against mine. It’s dark, possessive eyes burning right through me.
Home is Kane Rivera murmuring filthy promises in my ear, making me feel alive, reckless, ruined.
And no matter how hard I try to run, how desperately I fight the pull, I already know it’s useless.
Sooner or later, I’ll run straight back into the flames.
***
The air inside the grand foyer feels too thick, suffocating with the oppressive weight of expectation. My mother stands rigid, eyes sharp as cut glass, her anger shimmering beneath a flawless veneer. My father, ever calculating, watches me with narrowed eyes that assess damage, measure liabilities, and calculate the cost of my indiscretion.
My sneakers, Lena’s sneakers, mismatched against the marble floors and polished perfection, squeak slightly as I approach. Mother’s lips curl in disdain.
