SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

005

CAMILLA



We stepped into the elevator together, the doors closing behind us with that soft metallic click that sounded louder than it should have.

August didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at me. He just pressed the top-floor button and stood there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his tailored suit, shoulders squared, staring straight ahead as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

His calm, unbothered aura only made my nerves spiral faster.

I kept my arms wrapped tight around my middle, trying to cover as much skin as I could. The skimpy outfit that had felt like armor on stage, the one that had made me feel powerful and in control under the lights, now felt like nothing. It made me feel weak and vulnerable.

Every floor we passed made my stomach twist tighter, coil in knots. One. Two. Three. Higher. Higher. Until the numbers stopped and the elevator doors slid open with a soft, almost ceremonial ding.

He stepped out first, his long stride eating up the distance with an effortless confidence I hated. I followed, because what else could I do?

My bare feet pressed against the polished marble, trying to keep quiet, trying to stay unnoticed. But with him, I always felt noticed. Every step, every movement, every breath of mine seemed under his radar.

He pulled out a sleek black card from his wallet and swiped it through a hidden panel. The heavy front door clicked, a sound that seemed too casual for the weight of it. No key. No code. Just money and technology bending to him like it always did.

We stepped inside, and my breath caught. The place was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the walls, city lights scattered like diamonds through the night sky.

The marble floors gleamed, so polished I could see my reflection in them if I dared look down. Everything smelled clean, expensive—the faint tang of fresh linen, the subtle burn of leather, a hint of something citrusy in the air that made me want to take a deep, shuddering breath.

A woman stood in the center of the living room. Late fifties, perhaps, with a neat gray bun and a simple, perfectly tailored black dress. Her hands were clasped in front of her. Calm, practiced. Polite. Not a trace of judgment in her eyes as they flicked to me.

“Welcome back, Mr. Childe,” she said softly, voice steady, professional.

August gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. “Ama, we have a guest.”

Her gaze shifted to me, quick and polite. No judgment, no sneer, no curiosity that crossed the line. “Should I tell the madam—”

“If I wanted my mother to know,” August interrupted, calm but firm, “I would take her home, Ama. Don’t you think?”

The woman swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he said, turning his attention back to me for the briefest moment before focusing on her again. “I need to get to the mansion. Take care of the guest until I get back.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied immediately, bowing slightly.

“And Ama…” He waited until she looked at him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Give her painkillers. She’s had a long day.”

He looked me over one last time—not lingering, not with any sort of intimacy—just assessing, like one might appraise a piece of fragile but valuable crystal. Then he turned, walked back toward the elevator, and vanished before I could even open my mouth.

No goodbye. No explanation. Nothing. The elevator doors slid shut behind him, leaving me alone in the penthouse with a woman I barely knew.

I stood frozen, heart hammering in my chest like a trapped bird.

Ama cleared her throat gently. “Welcome home, Miss—”

“Camilla,” I said, finishing for her. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. Weak. Hesitant.

“Welcome, Miss Camilla. Please follow me to your room,” she said. Her tone was firm, polite, but softened slightly, almost motherly.

I hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then followed her. My bare feet made almost no sound against the marble, while her sensible heels clicked softly in the distance ahead.

Upstairs, the hallway stretched before me, lined with large paintings I didn’t recognize. Ama moved through the space as if she had memorized every step, every panel, every turn. She stopped at a door and pushed it open.

“This is the guest room,” she said. “You’ll retire here for the night.”

The room swallowed me whole. It was bigger than my old apartment, bigger than anything I had lived in.

A king-sized bed dominated the center, sheets crisp and white. Floor-to-ceiling curtains covered one wall, brushing against the floor like silk. A velvet chair sat by a low table, and the bathroom door was slightly ajar, revealing marble and gold fixtures gleaming under the soft lights.

I nodded, throat too tight to speak.

“Get comfortable,” Ama said gently. “I’ll bring you the painkillers.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She paused, then asked, “Have you eaten?”

I shook my head, my stomach twisting at the thought. “I’m not hungry.”

“It is better to get something in you, child,” she said softly. Almost motherly. “I’ll bring something light.”

She turned, walking back toward the hall, and I finally let myself collapse onto the edge of the bed. My legs gave out beneath me. My bare feet left faint impressions in the marble as I sank to the floor. Back pressed to the side of the mattress, knees pulled tightly to my chest.

And then the tears came.

Hot, fast, and relentless. At first, quiet and almost silent. Then louder, shuddering sobs that tore at my ribs.

Why me? Why did this have to happen? What had I done wrong in the universe to end up here, trapped in this world of wealth and power, caged in a penthouse that felt more like a gilded prison than a sanctuary?

Twenty million dollars. That was what my freedom cost. Or maybe it had never been mine to begin with. Maybe it was always going to end like this, with someone else controlling the strings of my life.

Monty. His name hit me like a punch to the gut, sharp and sudden. I scrambled to my feet, patting my body frantically. Pockets. Waistband. Nothing. My phone was gone. Left behind, probably in the dressing room. Maybe it fell out in the car. Either way, it wasn’t here. And that fact made the walls feel even closer, even heavier.

The door opened again. Ama stepped inside, carrying a small silver tray. On it, two white pills, a glass of water, and a little bowl of sliced fruit.

I wiped my face quickly, trying to steady my trembling hands. “Ama… can I use your phone?”

She set the tray down gently on the nightstand. “Sure. Only after I get permission from Mr. Childe.”

My heart sank. “Can’t you… can you just please help me?”

She studied me for a long, long moment. Something softened in her expression—pity, maybe. Understanding. But then she shook her head. “It’s for your own good.”

The tears came again, this time freer. I couldn’t stop them. My fingers shook as I picked up the pills, swallowing them dry before chasing them with the water. The fruit remained untouched.

Ama watched me the entire time. Her face remained calm. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something. Closed it again. Opened it once more.

“Goodnight, Miss Camilla,” she said softly, turning toward the door.

“Just Camilla,” I whispered, voice thick and cracked, “would do.”

She nodded slowly. “Goodnight, Camilla.”

Then she left. The door clicked quietly behind her. Lock didn’t even need to turn. It was unnecessary. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I slid back down to the floor and pressed against the bed again. Arms wrapped tightly around my knees. Face buried.

The city lights outside glowed through the curtains, beautiful. Cold. Beautiful in their distance, untouchable.

And I hated every single shining, glimmering inch of it.

Fuck my life.