WELCOME TO HELL

Camille Owens awoke with a start, her body still humming with the ghost of Pierce's touch—his fingers, his words, the way he had stripped her bare and left her trembling in shame. The memory clung to her like a second skin, sticky and unwelcome.

She hated herself for not pushing him away. She should have done so. Now he thinks he has some power over her; he thinks of her as a slut.

She groaned, sitting up on the bed, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her lower lip. A tingle rose in her stomach, the memory of Pierce's finger sliding into her cunt—she was wet, wet for him.

"Fuck! It's the hormones," she murmured.

But deep down, Camille knew it wasn't just the hormones. Pierce Landon was, and is, a very sexy man. His eyes were enough to get her wet.

But this wasn't something she wanted Pierce to know. And for this, she knew she had to stay away from him. Keep him at arm's length and make sure such a wet scene never happened again. If her only way was to avoid him, then she would.

A sharp knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts.

"Miss Camille?" A maid's voice—soft but firm.

"Yes?" Camille croaked, her throat dry.

"You've been summoned to breakfast. The General requests your presence in the dining hall."

Camille's fingers tightened around the sheets. Breakfast? With the General?

Her stomach twisted. This was the first time she'd been invited to dine outside her room since her arrival. Was this a test? A trap? Or perhaps, was there something more?

"Tell him I'll be there shortly," she said, forcing calm into her voice.

The maid's footsteps faded, leaving Camille alone with her racing thoughts.

She got up in haste. Refusing to keep the General waiting, Camille washed her face, got dressed, and in the next few minutes, she was already rushing out the door and entering the dining room.

"Good morning, Sir," Camille greeted upon entering the dining hall. The General sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

Camille hesitated at the threshold, her fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of her dress.

"Camille," the General said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Sit."

Not an invitation. It was a command.

She obeyed, choosing the seat farthest from him. A servant immediately stepped forward, filling her plate with eggs, fruit, and toast. The food looked exquisite, but her appetite had vanished. Spending her morning eating breakfast with the General wasn't how she had envisioned her day would begin.

Camille wished she could have her breakfast in the comfort of her room. Eating with the General did not exactly feel warm. She felt tensed up; she was afraid to even make a sound while eating.

"Eat," the General grumbled.

"Ye... yes, Sir." Camille reached out nervously for her cutlery, picked it up, and started eating.

For a while, the only sound was the clink of cutlery against the plates. The General ate methodically, his gaze occasionally flicking to her, assessing.

Then—

"If it isn't the baby mama and the General?" Pierce Landon voiced, strolling into the dining room casually. He sat down next to Camille.

"Good morning to you, son," the General said, unfazed by the sarcastic remark his son had made.

"Oh, it is a good morning, Father." He placed a hand on Camille's thigh. "I get to eat with the mother of my baby."

Camille's spine stiffened; she could feel Pierce's hand on her thigh—and just like yesterday, the hormones were starting to kick in. His dark hair slightly tousled, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of that serpent tattoo, and that didn't make things easier for Camille.

She inhaled sharply, then exhaled.

Pierce smirked, as if he could see straight through her. "Slut," he whispered in her ear.

Camille stood up, but just as she got up to leave—to run as far away as she could, Pierce held her hand and dragged her down to a sitting position.

"Don't be in a hurry, Camille," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck. "You're not done with your breakfast yet."

She said nothing; instead, she held her fork and resumed eating.

The General watched them, his expression unreadable. Then, as if the tension didn't exist, he took a sip of his coffee and said, "The DNA test will be conducted today."

Camille's breath hitched.

Pierce chuckled, low and dark. "Finally. Can't wait to see if you're a fraud or just exceptionally good at playing one." He lifted his teacup in a mock toast before draining it in one go. Then he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"Enjoy your meal, Camille. And for your sake, I hope the baby is truly not mine." He winked at her, then walked away.

The General rose next, his movements precise. "The doctor will be here by dawn, so be ready." With that said, he left, leaving Camille to her thoughts.

On one hand, she couldn't wait to get this whole baby mess sorted out, so she could carry on with her mission to find her dead father's killer.

But on the other hand, she feared that Pierce Landon's threat might not just be empty threats from a playboy.

***

TWO WEEKS LATER

The waiting had been torturous.

Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of Pierce's threats, of the General's unreadable stares, and of Camille lying awake at night, wondering if the child in her womb would be her salvation or her doom.

And now—

The doctor stood before them all in the living room, a sealed envelope in his hand.

Pierce lounged in an armchair, his posture deliberately casual, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests. If there was anyone who was nervous, it was Pierce.

The fact that Camille had gone through with the DNA test was already proof to him that whatever she was carrying in her stomach is actually his.

Camille sat up straight, her arms wrapped around herself, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure they could hear it.

The General took the envelope. Sliced it open with a letter opener—he unfolded the DNA test result and his eyes glanced through it in silence.

Tension rose in the air as Pierce and Camille waited for the result.

Then—

"It's a match. You are the father, Pierce."

Camille exhaled in relief. Although she knew it would be a match, still, she had been afraid, a series of questions tugging on her mind. What if something had gone wrong? Joyce had made a mistake, and the sperm the stripper gave her wasn't Pierce.

She touched her neck, feeling grateful that it was intact.

But Camille's relief was cut short; as her eyes slowly glanced at Pierce Landon, whose eyes were glaring at her spitefully.

Camille's knees nearly buckled. She felt it—fear. It rose from the pit of her stomach, and with every second she spent staring at Pierce, her fear grew bigger.

Pierce Landon stood to his feet, his eyes raging with anger. Something inside him — some last thread of restraint— snapped.

Since the death of his mother, he had no way to go against his father; everything he tried had always bounced back.

But finally, he found a way— it was simple, yet wicked. He had sworn on his mother's grave never to grant the one thing his father wished for so desperately, and that was a child.

His father, General Landon, wished for an heir. And he swore not to give him one.

And today, his promise has been broken by none other than Camille Owens. A woman who stepped into his life and turned his perfectly chaotic life into chaotic chaos.

"You!" he growled, pointing his finger angrily at her.

Camille's eyes widened; the fear she had felt consuming her.

"YOU FUCKING SLUT!" He launched himself at her, his hands outstretched.

Camille barely had time to jerk back before his palms slammed into her collarbones, shoving her hard into the sofa. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs, her vision blurring at the edges.

Then his hands found her throat.

His grip was instant, vicious. "You fucking bitch! I will kill you!! I will kill you!!! Fucking die!!!" He screamed like a crazed person, choking her with all his might.

Fingers digging deep into her skin, crushing, squeezing— not like a man strangling her, but like a beast tearing his prey apart.

Camille's nails scraped at his wrists, her mouth gaping, her lungs burning.

No air!

No air!

Pierce's face hovered inches from hers, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes black with fury.

"You fucking whore," he snarled, his voice gruff, "You ruined everything!"

The General, who had been silent all this while, watching with keen interest, spoke up. "Let go of her, Pierce."

But Pierce didn't let go. The General's words weren't enough to stop his madness.

His grip tightened.

Camille's throat convulsed. Her body jerked, her heels kicking weakly against the floor.

She was drowning; she could see hell's gate opening up for her. This was it, the end of her game.

Then—

"GET HIM OFF HER! NOW!" the General ordered his men.

She was saved; the gates of hell had closed.

The soldiers yanked him off her with much force. At first, it seemed impossible—his fingers held fast, clinging to her skin like he'd rather rip her throat out than release her.

Then—

His grip broke.

Air rushed into Camille's lungs. She collapsed forward, coughing and choking.

Above her, Pierce struggled against the guards, his chest heaving, his lips morphed into a snarl.

"If you thought you had just escaped hell, then you are wrong. Because you are in hell, Camille. And neither you nor that bastard child will come out alive," he spat, his voice shaking with rage.

His words sent a shiver down her spine. She caressed her neck—and the wound that had formed there was proof that Pierce Landon wasn't lying. She was indeed in hell.

"WELCOME TO HELL, CAMILLE!!" he shrieked maniacally, as the guards dragged him away. "WELCOME TO HELL!"