Chapter 7 — The Knife in the Mirror
1286 Words
The four men were gone.
The rose was gone.
But the note remained.
The game ends soon. Choose wisely.
Camille stared at it like it might rewrite itself if she looked hard enough.
She had made her choice—or at least she thought she had. She wasn’t picking one of them. She was picking herself. But someone wasn’t playing by her rules.
She slid the note into a drawer, locked it, then turned on the shower and stepped into the scalding heat. Let it erase everything from her skin.
But not her thoughts.
Not the pit in her stomach.
Because someone had broken into her home.
And someone had been watching her.
And now… someone was lying to her.
---
By morning, she was dressed in silk and steel—black fitted slacks, a sheer blouse, her collarbone proudly exposed with the faintest trace of Archer’s mark.
Let them see. Let them wonder. Let them burn.
Her phone buzzed.
Julian: Lunch today? I miss you.
Soft. Gentle. Predictable.
Another message buzzed seconds later.
Archer: Meet me. No games. No rules.
Rough. Sharp. Dangerous.
Then—another.
Damien: You need to stop. Before someone gets hurt.
Her blood ran cold.
She stared at his words.
There was no affection in that warning.
No fear either.
Just something that felt like…
ownership.
---
Camille picked Julian.
He was the safest place to start.
They met at a quiet café in Kensington. He was already there, sketching her from memory on a napkin, his eyes soft when he looked up.
“You look tired,” he said gently.
“I am.”
“Nightmares?”
“No,” she murmured. “Just waking up to reality.”
Julian reached for her hand. “You can talk to me. You know that.”
She forced a smile. “Of course.”
But her fingers pulled back.
“Did you tell anyone about last night?” she asked casually.
He paused. “No. Why?”
“No reason,” she lied. “I just… I keep feeling like someone’s watching me.”
Julian stiffened. “Camille…”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It’s just paranoia.”
“You said your door was open.”
“It was probably nothing.”
He hesitated. “You don’t think Damien—?”
“No,” she said automatically. Too quickly.
Julian nodded, but something in his eyes flickered.
Guilt?
Or just concern?
She couldn’t tell anymore.
---
After lunch, Camille made a detour—to her brother’s flat.
Marcus opened the door shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder, a half-eaten protein bar in his hand.
“Sis. You look like you’ve been in a noir film.”
“I need a favor.”
He raised a brow.
“I need your security footage.”
“Of what?”
“My building. The last three nights.”
Marcus’s smile faded. “Camille…”
“Just do it,” she said, pushing past him.
Fifteen minutes later, they were hunched over his laptop, scrubbing through grainy black-and-white footage. Most of it was uneventful—residents, deliveries, late-night joggers.
And then—
“There,” she said. “Pause.”
A figure in a hoodie. Standing by her door.
The time stamp: 2:47 AM, the night after the party.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Enhance?”
“Try.”
He did. The resolution was crap, but the frame was just clear enough to make out the posture. The lean. The outline of a leather cuff on the left wrist.
Camille’s stomach twisted.
“I know that watch,” she whispered.
“Whose is it?”
Her voice was quiet.
“Damien’s.”
---
She confronted him that night.
He opened the door shirtless, drying his hair with a towel. Still, he managed to look like the man who once stole her heart with a single glance.
But she didn’t flinch.
“I know you were at my apartment.”
Damien’s hand froze mid-motion.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. I saw the footage.”
He stepped forward, eyes hardening. “You’re having me followed now?”
“No. Just confirming my gut.”
He stared at her. Then smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Why would I break into your apartment, Camille?”
“You tell me.”
He leaned down, breath hot against her cheek. “You think I need to break in to have access to you?”
She shoved him back.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Damien’s voice turned dark.
“I’ve watched you unravel for weeks. Letting Archer rough you up. Letting Julian cradle you like a saint. And you think I’m the threat?”
“You came to my door in the middle of the night.”
“I wanted to talk. But I left. I didn’t go in.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
He held up his hands. “I expect you to believe that if I wanted to get inside, you wouldn’t have even known.”
Her breath caught.
The way he said it—confident. Cold. Like he could still walk through her locked doors without ever leaving a trace.
He stepped closer.
“I’m not the one you should be afraid of.”
Camille’s voice was ice. “Then who should I be afraid of, Damien?”
Damien’s silence was louder than any answer.
---
She left without another word.
But her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
If not Damien… then who?
---
That night, Camille waited for Archer.
He arrived late—leather jacket, shadows in his eyes.
“You look like someone who’s made up their mind,” he said.
“I need you to tell me the truth.”
He shrugged. “Truth is slippery.”
“Not with me.”
Archer leaned back on her couch, legs spread, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Alright. Ask your question.”
“Have you been watching me?”
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Why?”
“Because I like knowing things. Especially about you.”
“Did you leave the rose?”
“No.”
“The note?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
Archer’s smirk vanished.
“No.”
“But you suspect.”
“I suspect everyone.”
She walked toward him slowly.
“You think Julian would do it?”
“I think Julian’s too gentle to face who you really are.”
“And Damien?”
Archer’s jaw ticked.
“I think Damien’s still trying to rewrite your story to fit his version.”
“And you?”
Archer stood, towering over her.
“I’m the only one who wants to burn the pages and write something new.”
Camille’s pulse thudded.
“And if I asked you to help me find out who betrayed me?”
He smiled darkly.
“I’d do it with a match in one hand and a knife in the other.”
---
They spent the night tangled in rage and need.
By morning, she felt more alive—and more lost—than ever.
And when Archer left, she found a message etched on her bathroom mirror in red lipstick.
“You’re not in control anymore.”
---
Camille stared at it, her heart racing.
There had been no one else inside.
No sign of a break-in.
No sound.
Just a message.
Left while she was sleeping.
Next to the knife she kept hidden in the cabinet.
---
The game had changed.
This wasn’t just about s*x or power or love.
This was obsession.
And someone—maybe one of them—was about to shatter everything.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD