Chapter 4 — Playing With Fire
1311 Words
Camille stood in front of her full-length mirror, wrapped in nothing but a towel, her hair damp from a long, scalding shower. Outside, the city pulsed with nightlife, its glow seeping through the cracks of her penthouse windows like a promise she couldn’t quite trust.
Julian or Damien?
That had become the new question she asked herself every evening. But tonight, the answer was neither.
Tonight, she was taking herself out.
No games. No seduction. No obsessions clawing under her skin.
She would go to the rooftop bar across from her building, sip overpriced champagne, and watch strangers play pretend. Watch other people make the mistakes she was trying so hard not to repeat.
She dressed carefully—nothing too revealing, but elegant enough to command attention. A black backless dress with a thigh-high slit, paired with heels that clicked like danger on tile. Her makeup was minimal but flawless. Red lips. Dark lashes. Armor.
Camille walked into the night like she owned it.
---
The rooftop bar was a glass box in the sky, filled with rich men in tailored suits and women pretending to be interested in their stock portfolios. The air smelled like money, perfume, and desperation.
She slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered her drink. The bartender, a woman in her twenties with sharp eyeliner and a nose ring, offered a half-smile that said, I know your type, and I respect it.
Camille smiled back. She appreciated women who could see through the game.
“Waiting for someone?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Camille said. “Just watching.”
The bartender nodded. “Best seat in the house for it.”
Camille sipped her champagne and let herself dissolve into the ambient hum of conversation and the faint thrum of house music. She should’ve felt alone. But solitude was its own kind of freedom. For a while, at least.
Then someone sat beside her.
She didn’t turn right away. But she felt it—his attention brushing her skin like static.
“You don’t strike me as someone who waits for anything,” said a deep voice.
She turned her head slowly.
The man beside her was handsome in a dangerous way—dark hair, olive skin, and eyes that didn’t ask for permission. He wasn’t Julian or Damien. And that was exactly why she was interested.
“Good,” she said, “because I’m not.”
He held out his hand. “Archer.”
“Camille.”
“Can I buy your next drink?”
“I don’t drink what I can’t afford myself.”
Archer grinned. “Then let me buy it as a gift. Not a transaction.”
Camille regarded him for a long moment, then nodded once. “One drink.”
---
They talked. About nothing. About everything. Archer didn’t ask her what she did for a living or whether she was single. He didn’t care about polite pretenses.
“I used to be an architect,” he told her. “Now I build software that tracks faces and sells data to people you’d never want to meet.”
Camille arched an eyebrow. “Honest. I like that.”
“I figured you would.”
“What gave it away?”
“You’ve got the eyes of a woman who doesn’t flinch from the truth. You flinch from lies.”
Camille looked away.
“I’m married,” she said.
“I guessed,” Archer replied. “But I also guessed that doesn’t mean much anymore.”
She met his gaze. “It means I make my own rules.”
“Then let me play by them.”
He touched her hand, lightly. No pressure. No desperation.
Camille pulled back slowly.
“I have two men already interested in losing their minds over me.”
“Lucky them.”
“Or maybe cursed.”
He smiled. “Then let me be the third.”
And that—that—was when she knew she had to leave.
Because Archer wasn’t trying to win her. He was trying to see her. To know her.
And that was far more dangerous than anything Julian or Damien had tried to do.
She stood, finished her champagne, and leaned close.
“No love,” she whispered.
Then she walked out before he could respond.
---
Outside, the wind had picked up. The city lights shimmered in the puddles on the sidewalk. Camille paused at the corner, debating whether to call a driver.
But her phone was already ringing.
Damien.
She stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
She shouldn’t answer.
So she did.
“Where are you?” his voice came through dark and impatient.
“Somewhere high enough to see the stars.”
“Don’t play with me tonight, Camille.”
“Why? Afraid I’m playing with someone else?”
He was silent.
Then, “Come over.”
“No.”
“I miss your mouth.”
“I miss your bruises.”
Another silence.
Then a low chuckle. “Come get more.”
“I said no.”
“Then what do you want?”
Camille inhaled deeply. “I want you to beg.”
“What?”
“I want you on your knees, Damien. I want you needing me more than you hate losing.”
“I don’t beg.”
“Then you don’t get me.”
She hung up.
Her hands were shaking.
Not from fear. From power.
---
She didn’t make it home.
Instead, she walked until her feet ached, until the cold air sobered the thrill out of her blood.
Until she stood in front of an art gallery whose lights were still on after hours.
Julian’s gallery.
Of course.
She stepped inside without knocking.
He was painting.
Shirtless, barefoot, music low and instrumental. His back was a map of tension and grace. He turned when she entered, and his face lit up in that infuriating way—as if he’d been expecting her all along.
“Miss me already?”
“No,” she said, walking toward him. “I missed the silence.”
“Liar,” he said softly.
She paused before him.
“What are you painting?”
“You.”
“I’m not standing still.”
“You don’t need to. You’ve already burned yourself into my memory.”
Julian stepped forward and reached for her.
Camille let him.
He pulled the pins from her hair, watching it fall. His touch was reverent. Worshipful. The opposite of Damien’s.
And yet still, not love.
“You’re not like the others,” he whispered, brushing a strand behind her ear.
“I’m not yours either.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I want to be yours.”
The words landed like a punch.
Camille pulled back.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I mean them.”
“Then I’ll stop coming here.”
Julian’s jaw tensed.
He looked away.
“Would you still come,” he asked, “if I promised not to fall in love?”
She said nothing.
Because that was the problem. They were already circling that drain. All of them.
Her.
Damien.
Julian.
Even Archer, and he barely knew her.
She had made a rule.
But every man around her seemed intent on breaking it.
Maybe because they knew the truth.
She didn’t want to be loved.
She wanted to be undone.
And love was the one thing that could do it.
---
She slept alone that night.
For the first time in weeks.
The silence was louder than any argument.
But it brought clarity.
She needed space. Control. Strategy.
She would see both of them again—Julian and Damien—but only on her terms.
And when she did, she would remind them:
No love. No lies. No mercy.
- Writer
