Chapter 8
1153 Words
Camille
The restaurant Enrique chose was tucked away in the West Loop, discreet yet elegant. Candlelight flickered across polished wood tables, and the low hum of jazz wrapped around me like silk as I stepped through the doors. He hadn’t given me a name—just an address and a time. That alone told me he was used to being in control.
And yet, tonight, I refused to relinquish mine.
“Camille.”
His voice washed over me before I even saw him. I turned, heart stuttering in my chest as I caught sight of him standing by a private booth in the back. He wore confidence like a tailored suit—because of course, he was in one. Deep navy, crisp white shirt, no tie. Understated power. His smile, though, was something else—dangerously soft, almost gentle, like he was trying not to startle me.
“You look…” He paused, eyes sweeping from my heels to the fitted black dress that clung to me like armor. “…strategic.”
“Good,” I replied smoothly, slipping into the booth. “I thought I’d match the tone of the evening.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement as he slid in across from me. “So it’s a battle, then?”
“Always.”
We both smirked. The waiter arrived, pouring wine neither of us ordered. I took a sip, letting the bold red coat my tongue. Expensive. Intentionally so. Enrique watched me carefully, like every movement I made was a piece in a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“So,” I said, setting my glass down. “Why dinner? Why not just email your interest in the partnership?”
He leaned back, folding his hands loosely in front of him. “Because emails don’t tell me if someone’s lying.”
My brows lifted, the air shifting between us. “And you think I’m lying?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re hiding. Something. Or maybe someone. But I also think you’re smart, direct, and you don’t trust easily. That makes you interesting.”
The way he said it made me feel like a museum piece—something rare and fragile he was determined to study. I hated it and liked it in equal measure.
“I’m not hiding,” I said coolly. “Just observing.”
“Then observe this,” he said, lowering his voice. “I don’t care about your past, Camille. I care about what you want now.”
The words hit harder than I expected. What did I want? Justice? Revenge? A career that wasn’t constantly under siege by betrayal? Or maybe—just maybe—someone who looked at me and didn’t see a mess to be fixed, but a fire to be matched.
“I want peace,” I said finally. “And to never be underestimated again.”
He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.
Dinner came and went in a blur of conversation and sharp, knowing glances. He didn’t push, but he didn’t retreat either. He asked about my work, my vision, the kind of business I wanted to build if I ever left the corporate machine. I told him about my ideas—vague outlines I barely dared to dream out loud until now.
And he listened. Not politely. Intently.
By the time dessert arrived—a molten chocolate cake I barely touched—I felt something I hadn’t in months.
Safe.
Not weak. Not naive. Just… safe.
“I have to ask,” I said as he signaled for the check. “Why me? There are dozens of people you could work with in this city.”
“Because you’re not afraid of fire,” he said simply. “And I like the way you hold your ground.”
The ride home was quiet. He insisted on sending a car, and I didn’t argue. As the city lights slipped past the windows, I leaned back, thoughts tangled in each other like vines.
I’d gone into dinner ready to play chess.
But Enrique didn’t play games. He was the board.
—
The next morning, I walked into the office with a clarity I hadn’t felt in weeks. Vivian’s smugness no longer haunted the walls. The ache from Matt’s betrayal didn’t sting as sharply. Something had shifted inside me.
And I had no intention of hiding it.
“Girl, you’re glowing,” Charlotte whispered as I passed her desk.
“Good lighting,” I replied, smirking.
But I knew it wasn’t the lighting. It was the fact that for the first time, I had options. Leverage. A powerful ally who didn’t expect me to shrink, but to rise.
The morning passed quickly, meetings bleeding into calls. Around noon, my assistant dropped off an envelope with no return address. Inside was a single, folded card with one word in thick, elegant script:
Lunch?
No signature. Just a phone number underneath.
I didn’t need to ask who it was from.
I typed a quick reply: Can’t. Deadline. Raincheck?
A moment later: I admire your discipline. But I plan to make it harder to say no.
I stared at the screen, a grin tugging at my lips.
Bring it, Salazar.
—
By Friday, things were in motion. Quietly, carefully, I’d begun compiling the documentation to confront HR about Vivian. I had emails, voice memos, and enough suspicious timing to make a strong case. Not enough to burn her yet—but the match was in my hand.
“You really think they’ll take your side?” Charlotte asked that afternoon, her expression cautious.
“They won’t have a choice,” I said. “Especially not when they find out she’s been feeding inside info to a competitor.”
Charlotte blinked. “You’re sure?”
“I have sources.”
“What kind of sources?”
The kind with million-dollar companies and access to more data than God, I thought.
“Reliable ones,” I said instead.
Charlotte smirked. “Damn, Camille. I knew there was a shark under that silk.”
“I’m done playing nice,” I said. “It’s time I played smart.”
That night, I found myself walking through my apartment in silence, barefoot on hardwood, wine in hand. I thought about Vivian. About Matt. About every time I’d made myself small for their comfort.
No more.
The next time I saw Vivian, I’d smile. I’d hug her, even.
And then I’d tear her world down, brick by brick.
But for now… I let the music play, soft jazz spilling from the speakers, and I let myself feel proud.
Not because I had Enrique’s attention. Not because I was plotting Vivian’s downfall.
But because, for the first time in a long time, I felt like the woman I’d been trying to find again.
Whole.
Focused.
Unapologetically me.
And that? That was the beginning of something unstoppable.
- Writer
