Chapter 3
1295 Words
"Defamation. Damage to my public image. Interference with my personal relationships." His expression didn't change. "I have very good lawyers, Miss Whitfield. They'll make sure you never work in this city again."
Camille's mouth went dry.
'He's bluffing,' she thought. But he didn't look like he was bluffing. He looked like a man who'd made up his mind and was simply waiting for her to catch up.
"This is ridiculous," she said.
"This is necessary."
"For you maybe! I don't get anything out of this except…"
"Two hundred thousand dollars," Brent cut in.
The number hit her like a slap.
"What?"
"Marry me. Three months. Help me save my father and get Lilian back. Don't cause any more scandals." He picked up his coffee again. "At the end of the three months, we divorce quietly and I pay you two hundred thousand dollars."
Camille opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Two hundred thousand dollars. That was enough to move out. To never put up with her stepmother and sisters again. To actually have a life.
"I…" she started.
"The engagement banquet is this afternoon," Brent said. "You'll need to be ready by three."
"Wait, this afternoon?!"
"My mother has been planning it for weeks. I told her I was going to propose to Lilian. She's not going to cancel just because the bride changed." He looked at her. "Unless you'd prefer I call my lawyers instead?"
Camille glared at him. "You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering you a choice."
"That's not a choice!"
"Then consider it compensation for ruining my relationship." He turned toward the door. "The maids will help you get ready. Don't try to leave. That’d be a waste of time."
"You can't just keep me prisoner!"
"I can do whatever I want, Miss Whitfield. This is my house." He paused at the door. "Three o'clock. Don't be late."
He walked out.
Camille stood there in his oversized shirt, in his obscenely large bedroom, staring at the closed door.
'This is not happening,' she thought. 'This is actually not happening.'
She walked to the window and looked out at the city below. They were high up — maybe the thirtieth floor? Higher?
She could see her neighborhood from here. The small house she shared with her stepfamily. The life she'd been living.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Three months.
She sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands.
--
The maids arrived twenty minutes later.
There were three of them. All professional, all polite, all acting like dressing a random girl for an engagement banquet she'd been blackmailed into attending was perfectly normal.
They brought clothes. An emerald green dress that fit her perfectly despite the fact that she'd never been measured. Heels that were somehow exactly her size. Jewelry that looked like it cost more than a car.
"How do you have my size?" Camille asked as one of the maids zipped up the dress.
"Mr. Sterling had you measured while you were sleeping," the maid said pleasantly.
Camille's eye twitched. "Of course he did."
They did her makeup. Her hair. Sprayed her with perfume that smelled like it came in a bottle shaped like a bird or a flower or something equally ridiculous.
When they were done, Camille looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself.
She looked expensive. Sophisticated. Like someone who belonged at an engagement banquet.
'Too bad I'm just a girl who kissed a stranger and ruined his life,' she thought.
Matthew appeared at three o'clock exactly.
"Miss Whitfield," he said, giving her an apologetic look. "Mr. Sterling is waiting."
"Does he know I'm being held against my will?" Camille asked sweetly.
Matthew's expression didn't change. "The car is downstairs."
The engagement banquet was being held at a hotel that made the Valentine's gala look casual.
Camille walked in on Brent's arm, smiling the way the maids had taught her — soft, demure, like she was thrilled to be there.
Inside, she was screaming.
The room was full of people in expensive clothes with expensive watches and expensive opinions about everything. They all turned to look when she walked in.
The whispers started immediately.
"Look, there he is! He’s so handsome…"
"That's not Lilian."
"Who is that girl?"
"She's very young."
"Not exactly sophisticated, is she?"
Camille kept smiling. Her face hurt from smiling.
Brent's mother descended on them immediately. She was beautiful in that sharp, preserved way that came from good genes and better cosmetic surgery. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Brent, darling," she said, kissing his cheek. Then she looked at Camille. "And this must be... the girl."
"Mother, this is Camille Whitfield. My fiancée."
The word felt like glass in Camille's mouth.
"How lovely," his mother said, in a tone that meant something else. "We have so much to discuss. The wedding, of course. The prenuptial agreement. Your family background…"
"Mother," Brent said quietly. "Not now."
"Of course, darling. Later." She smiled at Camille. It was the kind of smile a shark might give before eating you. "Welcome to the family, dear."
She walked away.
Camille turned to Brent. "She hates me."
"She hates everyone," he said. "Don't take it personally."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one she's looking at like I'm something she stepped on."
"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Brent Sterling’s engagement banquet!"
They moved from table to table, smiling on cue. Brent introduced her to what felt like an endless line of people whose names slipped from her memory the second they were spoken. Business associates. Old family friends. Distant relatives.
Every single one of them studied her with thin smiles and sharper eyes, as if trying to solve a puzzle—what exactly did Brent Sterling see in this girl?
Brent, on the other hand, looked entirely at ease. If he noticed the scrutiny, he didn’t show it. He carried himself like a man observing a performance rather than starring in it, calm and detached while the room quietly judged his choice.
Despite the curious stares and barely concealed skepticism, Camille had no choice but to go through with the engagement ritual. She stood beside him, hand steady enough not to tremble, as they exchanged rings beneath the glittering lights.
It felt staged. Hollow. A carefully choreographed farce that dragged on until the host finally declared the ceremony concluded.
The applause that followed wasn’t for her. It was for Brent. For his status. For his pride.
By the time they were seated for dinner, Camille wanted nothing more than to disappear under the tablecloth and stay there.
Dinner itself was a special kind of torment. Seven elaborate courses she couldn’t identify, paired with wines she wasn’t permitted to touch—apparently she had already proven she couldn’t be trusted with alcohol.
Guests leaned in one after another, smiling too brightly.
Where did you study?
What do you do?
How did you meet Mr. Sterling?
When did you fall in love?
She lied through every answer, her smile stretching thinner by the minute.
This is a nightmare, she thought, cutting into something that might have been fish, or chicken, or something entirely unfamiliar. An actual, living nightmare.
When dessert was cleared and attention shifted elsewhere, Camille saw her opening.
She leaned slightly toward Brent. “May I go to the bathroom?” she asked sweetly.
Brent didn’t look at her. He simply gestured for Matthew to escort her.
Several minutes later, Matthew returned alone, a tight expression on his face.
“Sir… Miss Whitfield climbed out of the bathroom window.”
Brent remained perfectly composed.
He had expected this.
“Don’t bother chasing her,” he said calmly. “Find out where she lives and deliver the betrothal gifts to her parents.”
- Writer
