The bitch.
Not close enough to touch. Not close enough to speak. Just close enough to be seen. Or maybe—just close enough to make sure I knew she was always watching.
Always waiting.
And if Wolfe’s leash slipped for even a second—she would rip my throat out with her teeth.
I stayed still. Breathing. Obedient. Because even if Selene dragged the past into the marble under my feet—it wouldn't matter.
Because Wolfe owned the present. Wolfe owned the leash. And if I obeyed well enough—maybe he would never let me go. Maybe that was the only kind of safety left. Not freedom. Not love. Just the comfort of a leash held by someone cruel enough to keep me alive.
11
CLOE
The silkof my dress clung to the heat gathering under my skin. Each pulse of my heart a bruise blooming deeper against my ribs. I was careful not to breathe too hard. Careful not to let the pain show. Because pain didn’t excuse disobedience. Pain didn’t make me special. It made me weaker.
The music swelled in the background—some string arrangement meant to sound expensive. I focused on the floor. Counted the flecks in the marble. The cracks in the grout. The way my heels barely touched the ground.
Until—
The first ripple.
Soft.
Subtle.
Wrong.
I felt it before I heard it. The way a ballroom full of predators shifts when fresh blood hits the water. A breath held too long. A conversation clipped too sharply. Then the first flash of light—too bright, too fast.
A phone lifted.
Then another.
Screens lighting up like fire catching on dry brush.
Quick.
Unstoppable.
The whispers started before I could even fully lift my head.
“Is that her?”
“No—no, it can’t be?—”
“Camille.It’s Camille.”
The name cracked through the room like a whip. Soft enough to pretend it wasn’t real. Sharp enough to leave bruises anyway.
I clenched my hands tighter against the silk at my sides. Fingernails digging into the fabric. Breathing through the sudden flare of heat behind my eyes.
Not now. Not here. I didn’t look up. But I saw it anyway. Reflected in the gleaming surface of the polished floors. A screen. Bright. Brutal. A photo. Camille.
Not the soft, untouched image the world wanted to remember. Not the girl who wore crowns of glass and smiled for charity cameras.
This Camille?—
