Chapter 21 – The Cage She Built
920 Words
Camille stood frozen before the mirror. The words—"LIES LOOK GOOD ON YOU"—were a smudged scream across her reflection. Her breath caught in her throat, a cold fist squeezing her ribs. The black marker had run in places, like someone had written it with trembling hands… or maybe with rage.
The silence around her wasn’t silence at all. It buzzed. Breathing. Watching.
She spun around.
Empty.
She checked the lock—still secure. Windows closed. The alarm untouched. But the message was here. Someone had been inside. Or… she had.
“No,” she whispered, her fingers digging into her scalp. “No, I didn’t write this. I didn’t.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the attention.”
Her stomach dropped. Camille backed out of the bathroom like the walls might close in around her. She needed answers. She needed—
A knock at the door.
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Slowly, carefully, she approached the door and peeked through the peephole.
Archer.
For the first time, she hesitated.
She opened it anyway.
He was dressed in all black, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning her face with quiet intensity. No smugness. No teasing. Just that steady, unreadable calm.
"You look like you saw a ghost," he said, voice low.
"I might’ve," Camille muttered.
Archer stepped inside before she could stop him. He moved like he belonged—like her home was already familiar. It irritated her. It comforted her.
He paused in the hallway, turned to her. “Want to tell me what happened?”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”
“You didn’t,” he said simply. “Julian sent me.”
Camille froze. “Why?”
“He’s worried. You disappeared after... the kiss.”
She hated how the word hung in the air between them.
Archer’s gaze shifted past her, down the hallway. “You going to tell me what’s written on your bathroom mirror, or should I pretend I don’t already know?”
Her stomach churned.
He had seen it.
She narrowed her eyes. “Was it you?”
Archer met her gaze. “No. But I could guess who it was.”
Camille’s voice cracked. “Who?”
“Does it matter?” he said. “You’ve been dancing in the lion’s den for weeks now, Camille. Eventually, something’s going to bite.”
She wanted to hit him. Scream at him. Tell him that she wasn’t dancing—she was surviving. But the words didn’t come.
Instead, she looked at him and whispered, “Do you think I deserve it?”
Archer’s jaw clenched. He looked away.
“Maybe,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let them hurt you.”
He stepped closer.
Too close.
“You think I’m better than them,” he said. “But I’m not.”
Camille stared at him. “Then why haven’t you touched me?”
A flicker of something dangerous passed across his face.
“Because,” Archer said, his voice barely above a growl, “I want you to ask me.”
She swallowed hard.
And in that moment, she realized something terrifying: she wanted to.
He brushed past her, stopped at the edge of the hallway. “Next time someone breaks into your apartment, don’t sleep on the bathroom floor. Call me.”
She wanted to scream. Cry. Tear down the mirror and throw it out the window.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she waited until the door shut behind him.
Then she locked every bolt.
And fell apart all over again.
—
That night, Camille dreamed of Marcus.
Of the night he told her he wanted to try an open relationship.
They had been drinking wine in bed. His head rested on her thigh. He was smiling. Casual. Like he was asking her what color to paint the bedroom.
“I just think it could be fun,” he’d said. “You know. Exploring. Without pressure.”
She had laughed. A high, awkward sound.
But he hadn’t laughed with her.
He was serious.
And when she asked why, when she asked if he’d fallen out of love with her, he’d just kissed her hand and said:
“I love you. But I want more.”
That was the night something in her broke.
That was the night she decided love was a lie.
—
The next morning, she sat in her apartment, staring at the blank mirror. The words had been scrubbed clean. But she hadn’t cleaned it.
Which meant someone had come back.
Her body shook with cold. Or rage. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
Camille stood and walked to the window. She looked down at the city below—so loud, so alive, so far from the madness blooming in her chest.
She thought of Julian. Of his sharp smiles and colder truths.
Of Damien, and his terrifying hunger.
Of Archer, and the storm he kept caged behind calm eyes.
And then she thought of the figure in the shadows. The one who looked like her. The one who’d tampered with the hidden camera.
Who the hell was she?
Who the hell was Camille, anymore?
She didn’t have an answer.
But she knew what she had to do.
She grabbed her coat. Her phone. And the small knife she kept in her bedside drawer.
Then she locked the door behind her and went back to the club where it all began.
- Writer
