Chapter 12
942 Words
Camille
The heat of Enrique’s lips still lingered on mine when I closed my front door that night. I stood there in the dim entryway, my heart pounding like I’d just escaped something… or maybe ran headfirst into something I couldn’t stop.
This was no longer a slow burn—it was a wildfire. One I hadn’t meant to light, but couldn’t resist feeding.
I made my way to the kitchen, needing water, air—anything to ground me. But even as I sipped from the glass, my thoughts were scattered, tangled with Enrique’s scent, his voice, his hands. It wasn’t just the way he touched me. It was the way he *saw* me. And somehow, that was even more dangerous.
My phone buzzed on the counter, cutting through the haze.
**Unknown Number:**
> You’re playing with fire. Hope you’re ready to get burned.
I froze.
The water glass slipped slightly from my hand, but I caught it before it hit the marble. The message glared at me like a warning shot. And I already knew who had sent it.
Matt.
I’d blocked his number. He’d found another way. Of course he had.
A second message followed.
**Unknown Number:**
> Does he know who you *really* are?
The words made my stomach turn—not from fear, but from the insult. I wasn’t the same woman Matt once manipulated, the one who smiled through betrayal and cried in silence. That Camille was gone.
But this? This was the beginning of something more sinister. He was watching. Waiting.
I tapped the message. Took a screenshot. Sent it straight to my private email. Evidence.
I wasn’t letting either of them—Matt or Vivian—think they were ahead of me.
---
The next morning, I stepped into the office dressed for war. A tailored black blazer, blood-red heels, and the kind of lipstick that said *Try me*. HR was already processing Vivian’s violations, but I had more to give them. Things that would ensure she couldn’t slither out of this with a smile and a transfer.
I forwarded every message, every attachment, every screenshot.
And I didn’t stop there.
I dropped a confidential tip to the board. About misappropriated funds, falsified project results. Everything tied back to Vivian’s desperation to climb higher than her skillset ever allowed.
The trap was set. All I had to do was wait.
---
Later that afternoon, my phone rang. Enrique.
I hesitated before answering. A part of me wanted to protect what was growing between us from the storm I’d stirred up. But he was already in it, whether he knew it or not.
“Camille,” his voice came through smooth, velvet laced with concern. “You okay?”
There was something in his tone—an edge. As if he’d felt the shift too.
“I got a message last night. From Matt,” I said quietly, walking into the empty break room. “He’s getting reckless.”
Enrique didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was tight. Controlled.
“What did it say?”
“That I was playing with fire. That you don’t know who I really am.”
Silence stretched across the line. Then he said, “He’s the one who doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”
I closed my eyes. Let that sink in.
“Camille,” he continued, “he’s trying to rattle you. But I won’t let him get close. I have security. Resources. Let me help.”
I hesitated. “Enrique…”
“I’m not asking to take over. I know you’re capable. I just don’t want you fighting every battle alone.”
That cracked something in me.
I’d carried the weight of betrayal, vengeance, survival—all on my own. But maybe… just maybe… it didn’t have to be that way anymore.
“Dinner tonight?” he added. “My place. No distractions. Just us.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Yeah,” I said, voice softer than I intended. “I’d like that.”
---
His penthouse was just as sleek and commanding as the man who owned it. Glass walls, warm lighting, the quiet hum of jazz in the background. But what struck me most was the way he greeted me. Like I was already something essential in his world.
Dinner was light, easy. Laughter over wine. But under the surface, the air simmered with tension—need.
And when I stood to help clear the plates, he caught my wrist gently.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, voice husky.
I turned to him. His eyes locked on mine. “Then what *do* you want me to do, Enrique?”
He stood, slowly. Closed the space between us. His hand cupped my cheek. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel what I feel.”
“I’m not pretending.”
His lips brushed mine—featherlight, but hot as a match to kindling. “Then show me.”
And I did.
His mouth claimed mine with hunger. The kind that had waited too long, felt too much, burned too deep. He lifted me with ease, set me on the marble island, and my hands found the hem of his shirt. Everything else fell away—the revenge, the chaos, the lies.
It was just us. Raw. Real. No armor.
The night stretched into something reckless, something healing.
And as I lay tangled in his sheets later, his arm wrapped around my waist, I realized something.
I didn’t just want justice anymore.
I wanted peace.
And maybe… I was finally on my way to having both.
- Writer
