SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

017

CAMILLA

The moment August walked out the door, the penthouse felt smaller.

I had gone back to the room and sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at a particular spot, replaying his voice in my head. That calm certainty. The way he spoke like my choices were temporary inconveniences he’d already planned around.

I had a million and one ways to leave this man spinning in my head.

Run while Ama wasn’t looking. Fake a phone call. Cause a scene. Steal a car. Break a window. Scream. Fight. Do something reckless and loud.

Every plan felt half-formed. Risky. Impossible.

Even when he wasn’t physically there, I felt watched.

Then the idea landed.

Clean. Bright. Almost elegant.

What if I fainted at the mall?

The thought made my pulse jump.

Ama would panic. Of course she would—she already hovered like a worried aunt every time I sighed too hard. She’d have no choice but to get me medical help. And once I was there—away from the penthouse, away from the world’s eyes, away from locked doors and private elevators—I could slip out.

Disappear into the city.

Find Gianna. Find Monty. Find air that didn’t taste like August’s cologne and control.

My hands curled into fists as adrenaline sparked through me.

This was the moment. If I hesitated, if I let doubt crawl in, I’d lose the nerve. August’s voice would settle back into my head.

So I moved.

Fast.

I crossed the room and went straight for his closet, yanking open the door before I could second-guess myself. Everything inside looked untouched by chaos—neatly arranged, perfectly spaced, intentional. I grabbed the new shorts and soft tee folded on the shelf, fabric still crisp, still smelling faintly of packaging.

The sneakers waited beneath them.

I slid my feet in and froze.

They fit perfectly.

Like someone had measured my feet while I slept.

A shiver crawled down my spine, sharp and cold. I pushed the thought away before it could take root. Fear would paralyze me if I let it.

I pulled the shirt over my head, adjusted the waistband of the shorts, and turned toward the mirror.

Right after August left that morning, Ama had stopped me in the hallway. Her expression had been careful, rehearsed—like she’d already practiced the words in her head and still hated them.

“Your clothes are in his room now,” she’d said quietly.

I’d frowned. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated. Just long enough to make my stomach tighten. “Mr. Childe said you’re not to sleep in the guest room again. Under any circumstances.”

The words had landed hard.

“I didn’t agree to that,” I’d said.

Ama hadn’t met my eyes. “I know.”

“And if I don’t listen?”

She’d swallowed. “Please don’t put me in that position, Camilla.”

When I’d gone into August’s room after that conversation, the sight had nearly stolen the air from my lungs.

Half his closet was no longer his.

Dresses lined up in neat rows, arranged by color and length like a luxury boutique display. Blouses folded with surgical precision. Skirts. Trousers. Denim in every shade imaginable.

Drawers full of lingerie.

Silk. Lace. Soft pinks, blacks, creams.

Every piece brand new. Every tag still attached.

It wasn’t generosity.

It felt like he was proving something.

My face had burned so hot I’d had to sit down, heart hammering, palms slick with sweat.

Now, standing in front of the mirror in the guest room, I barely recognized myself.

Not because I looked different.

Because I didn’t.

No oversized shirt swallowing me whole. No borrowed identity. No softness that wasn’t mine.

Just Camilla.

My hair pulled back. My face bare. My eyes sharp with purpose.

Ready.

I stepped into the hallway and found Ama waiting by the stairs.

“I’m ready,” I told Ama.

She turned, her gaze sweeping over me slowly.

“You feel okay?” she asked.

“I will,” I said.

She studied me for another beat, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

We moved through the apartment in silence. The echo of our footsteps felt louder than necessary. When Ama closed the door behind us, the click sounded final, like a lock snapping into place.