CHAPTER THREE: Who are you?

Camilla’s POV

The cameras went crazy.

Light exploded across the deck like lightning strikes, dozens of shutters clicking in rapid succession. Reporters shouted over each other, their voices blending into an incoherent roar. I stood frozen on the stage, the microphone still in my hand, my words hanging in the air like smoke.

Because I just caught him having sex with my sister.

Then I saw my mother.

Eleanor Stones collapsed as if someone had cut her strings. One moment she was standing rigid beside my father, the next she was on the floor, one hand pressed to her chest, her perfect blonde hair coming loose from its pins.

"Eleanor!" Someone screamed.

Guests rushed toward her. I watched it happen like I was underwater—slow, distant, unreal.

My father's eyes found mine across the crowd.

The look in his eyes made my stomach drop.

Red. Furious. Not concerned about me. Not heartbroken for me. Furious—because I had done exactly what my mother warned me not to do.

I had embarrassed them.

Alex's father stood up from his table. His wife followed. Then his brothers, his cousins, his entire polished, powerful family. Without a single word to anyone, they turned and walked toward the exit.

Alex cursed under his breath and immediately ran after them.

"Father—wait—let me explain—" His voice faded into the chaos.

I dropped the microphone.

It hit the stage with a deafening screech of feedback that made everyone flinch. Then I turned and looked at Vivian.

She was still standing at the edge of the crowd, one hand pressed to her reddened cheek. Her blue eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted. She looked genuinely shocked.

As if she couldn’t believe the quiet, obedient Camila had just set fire to everything.

I didn't say a word to her. I just turned and walked off the stage.

"Miss Stones! Miss Stones, over here!"

"Miss Stones, is it true about your sister?"

"Were you aware of the affair before tonight?"

“How long has the affair been happening?”

"Camila! Camila!"

The reporters swarmed like vultures. Cameras flashed in my face, blinding me. Microphones were shoved toward my mouth. Hands grabbed at my arms, my dress, trying to hold me in place for one more photo, one more quote, one more piece of my humiliation to sell.

I pushed through them.

I didn't speak. Didn't stop. Didn't look back.

If I stopped moving, I thought I might completely fall apart.

Eventually I found the staircase leading to the upper deck.

I climbed it quickly.

The noise faded behind me. The music, the shouting, the clicking of cameras—all of it dissolved into the soft rush of wind and the distant lap of waves against the hull. The upper deck was empty. Dark. Quiet.

Finally.

I walked to the railing and gripped the cold metal.

And then I let go.

The tears came like a dam breaking—not the polite, controlled crying I had learned to do in front of my family. This was ugly. Messy. My shoulders shook. Sobs tore out of my throat. I pressed both hands over my mouth to muffle the sound, but it didn't help. Everything I had held inside for years came pouring out in the dark, under the stars, where no one could see.

The engagement. Alex. Vivian. My mother's cold hands and colder words. My father's red, furious eyes. The way Alex had pushed me. The way Vivian had smiled.

I don't know how long I stood there crying. The wind dried the tears on my cheeks almost as fast as they fell, but new ones kept coming.

A hand entered my tear-blurred vision, holding a crystal glass of amber liquid.

“Do you want to talk to someone?”

The voice was deep. Unhurried. Calm in a way that felt almost offensive given the night I’d just had.

I wiped my eyes and looked up.

And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

The man standing in front of me was... stunning. There was no other word for it. Tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out his perfectly tailored black suit. Dark hair, slightly disheveled like he'd run his fingers through it more than once. And his eyes... dark brown, almost black, with an intensity that made my stomach tighten.

He wasn't looking at me like I was a spectacle. Like a scandal. Like a headline.

He was just looking at “me.”

"Who are you?" My voice came out hoarse. Broken.

One corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but something close. "Does that really matter right now?"

I stared at him.

He nodded toward the glass in his hand. "I saw everything that happened inside. Thought you might need this."

Slowly, like I was moving through water, I took the glass. Our fingers didn't touch, but I felt the warmth from where his hand had been.

“What is it?”

“Something strong.”

I took a sip. Then immediately coughed.

He chuckled softly. Low and quiet, like he hadn’t meant to.

“See?” he said.

“It’s definitely strong.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped me. The first genuine laugh I’d managed all night.

"I saw everything," he said again, quieter. “And I thought you might need someone to actually listen.”

I didn't know what was wrong with me. I didn't know this man. I didn't know his name or his business or why he was on this yacht.

But something about him felt… safe. Maybe it was the way he wasn’t staring at me like I was gossip. Maybe it was because he wasn’t asking questions. Or maybe I was simply too exhausted to keep carrying everything alone.

The words spilled out before I could stop them.

I told him everything—catching Alex with Vivian, the cruel words I’d overheard, my mother’s warning not to embarrass the family, my father’s rage, how I had always been the outsider, the safe, boring choice. He listened without interrupting, without offering empty comfort. He simply stood there, steady and attentive, letting me bleed.

When I finally stopped talking, the silence stretched between us.

The wind whipped across the deck.

“That sounds exhausting,” he finally said.

A broken laugh escaped me. “That’s your response?”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Something profound?”

He nodded thoughtfully.

Then said,

“I think your family is insane.”

I stared at him. Then laughed—real laugh this time. The kind that left tears in my eyes.

He smiled. Just slightly. Like that had been exactly his intention.

After a moment, his expression settled into something more serious.

“Do you know what I find interesting?”

“What?”

“Everyone downstairs is talking about how embarrassed your family must be.” He paused. “Nobody is talking about what happened to you.”

The words landed harder than I expected.

Because he was right. Every single person downstairs was worried about the scandal—the headlines, the business deal, the damage to the Stones name. Nobody cared about the fact that I had been betrayed.

My eyes burned again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I think you did the right thing.”

My breath caught.

Nobody had said that. Not once. Not tonight. Not ever.

Something shifted inside me. A crack, quiet and irreversible.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was because this stranger had shown me more kindness in thirty minutes than my family had shown me in years.

I didn’t know. I just knew I was tired. Tired of being careful. Tired of being good. Tired of living for everyone except myself.

“You know something?” I said.

“What?”

“I’ve never done anything reckless.” I paused. “Not once. Not ever.”

A slow smile appeared on his face. “There’s a first time for everything.”

The words settled between us like a quiet dare.

The wind blew a strand of hair across my face. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked it behind my ear. The touch was brief. Gentle. Careful. Nothing like Alex.

My heart stumbled.

For one suspended second, neither of us moved.

Then something inside me snapped.

Not from desire—not exactly. From rebellion. From grief. From the desperate, terrifying feeling of having nothing left to lose.

Before I could think better of it, I grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him toward me.

My lips brushed his.

For a second he froze.

So did I.

The kiss lasted only a heartbeat just long enough for me to realize what I had done.

Reality crashed back immediately.

My eyes widened.

I pulled away so fast I nearly stumbled.

"Oh my God." I pressed my fingers to my lips, my heart pounding. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have…I didn't mean to—"

Shame burned my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I just—I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."

I didn't wait for him to respond.

Couldn't.

If he said something kind, I might fall apart again. If he said something cruel, I might shatter completely.

So I ran.

I practically ran the entire way back to my suite.

My heart wouldn’t slow down.

The corridor was empty when I finally reached my suite door. My hands were shaking. The alcohol hummed in my veins. My thoughts were a tangled wreck of humiliation and grief and something else I didn’t have a name for yet.

What was wrong with me?

I had just kissed a stranger.

A complete stranger.

The memory made my cheeks burn.

I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the door and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath.

Before I could reach for the handle, a strong hand grabbed my arm and spun me around.

It was him.

He backed me against the door, his tall frame caging me in. His dark eyes locked onto mine. Neither of us spoke. For one dangerous second, the world seemed to disappear.

His gaze dropped briefly to my lips.

Then returned to my eyes.

My heart skipped.

“Tell me to leave,” he said quietly.

The words hung between us. A challenge. An exit. A choice that was entirely mine.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

His eyes darkened.

He cupped my face and kissed me like he had been thinking about doing it since the moment I ran. Deep. Demanding. His tongue swept against my lower lip, and a sound escaped my throat—something between a gasp and a moan. One of his hands pressed flat against the door beside my head. The other stayed at my jaw, steady, like he already knew I wouldn’t run this time.

He was right.

I kissed him back. My fingers fisted in the front of his jacket. He groaned against my mouth, low and rough, and something about that sound made my knees weak.

This wasn't gentle. This wasn't the careful, controlled kisses Alex had given me.

This was hunger.

This was a man who took what he wanted.

Right now, he wanted me.

And I still don’t know his name.