Hope
The truth sits heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a heartbeat that isn’t mine. It’s almost midnight now, and I’m still awake, staring at the flicker of the candle by my bedside.
The flame dances wildly with every sigh that escapes me, mocking my inability to stay still, mocking the thoughts that won’t quiet.
Everything I’ve seen—everything I’ve been shown—has shredded what I thought I knew. Camille isn’t just manipulative or power-hungry; he’s something darker.
More calculating.
The truth is tangled in his bloodline, and now I understand that the woman he calls “Grandmother” is the true serpent in the garden. Her hands are everywhere, her whispers buried in every order Camille obeys.
I finally see it: Camille may believe he’s in control, but he’s a puppet too. An
