Camila’s POV
Yesterday’s sounds still clung to my skull like a parasite I couldn’t shake every moan, every gasp, the guttural rhythm of André driving into Genevieve like she was his salvation and his sin wrapped in silk. I could hear it all, looping endlessly. Her voice, so high and breathy, like a damn siren pulling him in deeper.
I told myself not to dwell on it. Not to think about how she’d sounded. Not to let it crawl under my skin and twist, but… how could I not?
Because I knew what today held.
I knew the storm I’d set in motion would shatter whatever fairytale she thought she was living.
The moment her mother walked into the pack house, hunched beneath the weight of years and bitterness, I knew it was going to work.
She was exactly what I pictured worn down by time, clinging to resentment like a tattered shawl. Her shoes were cheap, her eyes sharp and hungry. The envelope I’d pressed into her trembling hands hours ago had already softened her resolve. Money made people honest,
