SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

010

CAMILLA

I waited a few minutes after August left the bathroom.

My cheeks burned like I’d been standing too close to a fire, and my heart was still hammering against my ribs in a way that felt reckless and exposed. I pressed my palms against the cool marble counter and took a slow breath, then another, forcing my lungs to remember how to work properly.

The air still felt thick with everything that had just happened.

It clung to the steam-stained walls, to my skin, to my thoughts. His presence lingered like a shadow I couldn’t shake. Everything was just too vivid.

I could still see him when I closed my eyes. Still hear the sound he’d made. Still feel the weight of the moment sitting heavy in my chest.

I couldn’t stay in this room another second without combusting.

I grabbed the first thing I could find from his closet. One of his shirts. White. Crisp. Probably expensive. It smelled faintly like him. Way too big and way too woody, or was it musk?

The hem brushed just above my knees, the sleeves swallowing my hands until my fingers disappeared.

I rolled them up twice, then once more for good measure, and studied myself in the mirror.

Decent enough.

Anything was better than standing around naked under a towel, feeling like my skin was still buzzing.

The s****l tension in that bathroom had been suffocating. It crawled under my skin and refused to let go. If I wanted to keep even a shred of my sanity, I needed distance from him.

Real distance.

I slipped out of the room quietly and padded down the stairs barefoot. The marble was cool beneath my feet, smooth and nice in a way that made me very aware of each step.

This was what good money felt like—not the fake Italian rug in Rico’s office that he wouldn’t shut up about, shedding fibers and pretending to be luxury.

Low voices drifted from the living room.

So the visitor was a guy. Nice.

I slowed at the bottom of the stairs, my pulse kicking up again. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the house carried sound too easily, every word echoing softly off stone and glass.

“…she’s been bugging me nonstop, man. You need to call her, August.”

Daniel’s voice.

I froze mid-step, my toes curling slightly against the cold floor.

August answered a beat later, his tone low and clipped. “Enough, D.”

Something tight twisted in my stomach, sharp and unexpected. I didn’t know why I was bothered by the mention of another woman. Maybe it was his mother. That would make sense. I wanted it to make sense. I wanted to believe he didn’t have a girlfriend at the moment, or at least not one important enough to matter.

I should have spent more time on the internet instead of relying on half-gist from Gianna. Rookie mistake.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped into view.

Both men turned.

Daniel’s eyes widened first, then his mouth curved into a slow grin that said he was enjoying this far too much. His gaze dragged over me openly—taking in the oversized shirt, my bare legs, the fact that I was clearly not dressed to receive company—before flicking back to August like he’d just been handed front-row seats to something entertaining.

“Really, August?” he drawled. “You’re avoiding home because of her?”

Home?

Was this not his home?

The word echoed in my head, landing wrong, like a note out of tune.

August’s jaw tightened. I saw the muscle tick, sharp and controlled, like he was barely keeping himself in check. “Enough.”

Then his eyes shifted to me.

They dropped to the shirt—his shirt—lingered for half a second too long, then lifted back to my face. Something dark flashed in his gaze. Annoyance, irritation… anger. He looked like he was trying his best to contain it all.

“Go back upstairs, Camilla,” he said. “You’re not properly dressed.”

I glanced down at myself. The shirt covered everything important. More than some of the outfits I used to wear on stage. A scoff slipped out before I could stop it.

“This is decent enough, Mr. Childe.”

Daniel let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained now. I could practically feel him filing this moment away for later teasing.

August’s eyes narrowed, dark and sharp.

I didn’t wait for permission. I turned and walked straight toward the kitchen, my spine stiff, my heart pounding harder with every step. Part of me expected him to follow—expected a hand on my arm, a sharp word, some kind of consequence for the tone, the defiance.

But he didn’t.

The absence of his touch felt like relief.

And somehow, disappointment.

God, what was wrong with me?

Ama stood at the kitchen island, slicing fruit with calm, steady movements, the knife tapping softly against the board. She looked up the moment I entered and set it aside, concern softening her face as if she could read the tension clinging to me.

“How are you doing, child?” she asked gently.

I shrugged, forcing my shoulders to loosen. “I’ve seen worse days.”

She studied me for a second longer than necessary, her eyes warm and perceptive. “Mr. Childe insisted on making your breakfast this morning.”

My eyes widened. “That’s…”

“Unexpected?” she finished, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

I nodded quickly. “Why?”

Ama lifted one shoulder. “He does whatever he wants, Camilla.” Then she added, almost teasing, “And I hope you enjoyed the food?”

Heat rushed to my face.

The memory of the bathroom surged forward uninvited—the steam, the closeness, the way everything had felt too intense to name. My throat tightened.

“Yes,” I managed. “I did.”

“Good.” She smiled wider. “Do you need help with anything?”

“No, thank you.” I hesitated, then added, “Do you need my help with anything?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”

Her calm was grounding. Normal. I clung to it.

Before I could say anything else, his voice cut through the air behind me.

“Camilla.”

I turned slowly.

August stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, posture rigid. He was glaring hard enough to make my stomach flip. There was something coiled about him now, something sharp and restrained.

“Yes, August?” I said.

The moment his name left my lips—casual, familiar, stripped of the “Mr. Childe”—his expression darkened.

“Who gave you the right,” he said coldly, “to talk to me that way in front of a stranger?”