But what Damian didn’t realize yet, but soon would, was that Camille was Leander’s fated mate, and he would never stay away from her.
Inside the stark silence of his penthouse, the fury settled into a cold, weary irritation. He stood before the bathroom mirror, the bright lights merciless. A bruise was already flowering along his jawline, dark and vivid against his tan skin. His lip was split, a smear of dried blood at the corner. He wiped at it with a damp cloth, the sting a minor punctuation to the chaos in his mind.
But as Leander stared at his battered reflection, a more unsettling concern surfaced, absurd in its simplicity.
Camille would see this tomorrow.
She would notice the bruise on his jaw, the split lip, and his bruised knuckles. And he knew well enough that her cleverness would see right through any flimsy excuse. The thought of worry clouding those blue eyes, of her associating him with danger and violence, twisted something inside him. He didn’t want to be another source of distress in her life. She had enough of that.
But the man in the mirror looked exactly like the kind of danger her world had taught her to fear.
Would she fear him now?
SEVEN
CAMILLE
The heavy penthouse door clicked shut behind Camille, severing the tenuous warmth of the hallway like a cut string. The air inside her home tasted of polished demeanors and chilled expectations. The echo of Leander’s words—”You deserve a place that feels safe. Soft.”—clashed violently with the sterile quiet of a home that had never been either.
Her mother hadn’t moved from her perch on the sofa, a porcelain figurine of perfect displeasure. Vivienne St. James didn’t need to raise her voice. Her tone was enough, cool and surgical, carving through the lingering hope Camille had carried back inside.
“That man is inappropriate, Camille.”
Camille stopped walking. She kept her gaze on the abstract art hanging behind her mother’s head—a violent splash of crimson she’d always hated.
“He was just checking on my welfare, Mother.”
“He disrupted our evening,” her mother continued, as if Camille hadn’t spoken. “He was presumptuous, overstepping in a way that speaks of a lack of respect or an excess of ambition.You associating with him reflects poorly on us. You need to quit working for that man immediately.”
Something inside Camille tightened, a coil of long-suppressed resistance winding to its limit. It wasn’t anger, not yet. It was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
I am thirty-five years old, she thought.I am tired of being controlled and wielded for other people’s benefit.
“I’m not quitting,” Camille said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m not quitting my job at Drake Holdings.” The words gained strength as she spoke, solidifying a truth she’d only felt in her gut. “It’s the first thing that has ever felt like it’s truly mine. Not a performance for your charity foundation. Not a strategic move in your social calendar. Mine.”
Her father, who had been observing from the sidebar while swirling a brandy, finally spoke. “Camille, be reasonable. This… infatuation with a career. It’s beneath you. We’ve discussed this. Your place is with the Foundation, with your family, with finding a suitable husband. Damian Cross is a brilliant?—”
The coil snapped. Years of quiet compliance began to unravel, spilling out in a rush she couldn’t stop.
“Damian Cross is another stranger you handed me like a business card!” The force of her own voice shocked her. “And I am tired. I am so tired of being positioned. An asset for your networking. A prize for your business alliances. When do I get to be a person? When do my wants matter?”
The silence that followed her outburst was sharp. It was the silence of a fundamental rule being broken. Her autonomy, it seemed, was the ultimate betrayal.
Her mother stood up, her composure cracking to reveal the cold steel beneath. “If you are so determined to live independently in thought and action,” she said, each word ashard of ice, “then you may do so somewhere else. Starting tonight.”
The threat landed, but it didn’t shatter her. Instead of panic, a strange, solid steadiness settled in Camille’s chest. The fear of losing this gilded cage had kept her trapped inside it. The reality of leaving was suddenly less terrifying than the prospect of staying another night.
“I am thirty-five years old,” Camille replied, her voice trembling but clear. “I am no longer willing to negotiate for permission to live my own life.”
She turned and walked toward the sweeping staircase, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The ache was profound, a mourning for the daughter they’d wanted and she could never be. But beneath the grief, a cleaner, sharper feeling emerged. She was finally being set free.
Packing was a surreal, disjointed ballet. She moved through her rooms—the rooms of a curated life, not a lived one—pulling garments from closets and items from shelves. Each piece put into a suitcase felt like a quiet apology to the woman she should have been years ago. The elegant luggage, monogrammed with her initials, seemed absurd now. She was packing for a new life, not a vacation.
An hour later, the cab ride through the late-night streets of Manhattan was a blur of refracted light and whispering tires. She oscillated between grief for what she’d lost and a dizzying, unfamiliar sense of possibility for what might come next.
