SIX

CAMILLA

I woke up slowly, my head pounding like someone had taken a hammer to it. Every throb, every sharp pulse, felt like it was drilling right into my skull. 

A low groan escaped my lips before I could stop it, soft, involuntary, full of last night’s exhaustion. My body instinctively twisted, reaching for Monty’s side of the bed, the familiar warmth I had always relied on.

My hand met nothing but cool, empty sheets. Panic hit me like a wave. My eyes snapped open, and the room came into focus. This wasn’t the club. This wasn’t the tiny, dingy apartment I’d been used to, with its sagging mattress and cracked ceiling. No. This was clean. White linens that smelled faintly of cotton and something expensive. 

Sunlight poured through sheer curtains, scattering across the polished marble floors. The faint scent of fresh linen and a hint of something else—something masculine, strong, intoxicating—lingered in the air.

I sat up slowly, every movement deliberate, careful not to stumble in my wobbly state. The room spun for a second, then settled. I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to anchor myself, breathe through the fog. Memories of last night came rushing back in jagged pieces—the stage, the glare, Rico’s face turning pale when August had handed him the card, twenty million dollars sliding across like it meant nothing. And August—his hands, his lips, brushing away my tears as if they were his to claim. My chest tightened, and I realized I had never felt so exposed and small in my life.

I dragged myself out of the bed, legs trembling. I shuffled toward the bathroom, each step heavy, my bare feet pressing against the cool marble.

Inside, the bathroom was another revelation—marble counters, gold fixtures that gleamed in the sunlight, and a mirror that reflected the truth I couldn’t avoid: small, fragile, terrified. I splashed cold water on my face, the sting sharpening my senses, but it didn’t help. My reflection was still me—small, frightened, lost.

I stepped back out and froze.

August was there.

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, hands resting casually on his thighs. His dark suit was flawless, hair neat, posture perfect. And his eyes—sharp, calculating, and focused—locked on me the moment I appeared.

He smirked, slow, deliberate, dangerous. “Well, the sleeping beauty is awake.”

I glared at him. Hard. My pulse quickened, heart hammering, mind racing. “Why? Was not looking at you such a terrible thing to do that you had to punish me this way?”

He scoffed, low, amused. “Punish you? Camilla, this is the best life you’ve ever seen since you’ve been on this earth. Or am I wrong?”

The words hit me like a slap to the face. My chest tightened, breath hitching. “That was a very low blow, Mr. Childe.”

His smirk deepened. There was something about the way he moved—controlled, measured, deliberate. He stood, the click of his shoes against the marble sharp, echoing through the room. Each step toward me made my stomach twist, but this time, I didn’t back up. I planted my feet firmly, forcing myself to hold my ground, even though my heart threatened to leap out of my chest.

He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his gaze. His presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating, the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller.

Then, unexpectedly, his fingers moved. Gentle, but purposeful, they lifted my chin, tipping my face upward. I froze, unsure what to expect. And then—soft, fleeting, impossibly intimate—he pressed a kiss to my forehead.

I felt every nerve in my body ignite. My chest tightened in a way that hurt, and my hands curled into fists at my sides, powerless to respond.

“Rest well today, Camilla,” he murmured against my skin. “I’ll be back tonight for your first performance.”

His hand lingered for a moment, brushing strands of hair from my face with surprising tenderness. My throat tightened as I tried to blink away tears, but it was too late. They betrayed me, sliding down my cheeks despite my attempts to hide them.

He tilted my chin higher, holding my gaze, and whispered softly, “Don’t cry, princess.”

I wanted to tell him I wasn’t crying for him. That none of this was fair. But my voice didn’t come. I only shuddered as another tear slid down my face. He bent again, just enough to kiss it away. His lips were warm, impossibly soft, and the gesture sent a shiver through me that left my chest aching in ways I couldn’t name.

“I have to go now,” he said quietly, stepping back, the tension in the room shifting with his movement. “Go downstairs and meet Ama for your food.”

I nodded slowly, numb, trying to process what had just happened. My limbs felt heavy, my mind foggy.

“Take care,” he added, and with a last glance, he turned, walking out of the room. The door clicked softly behind him, leaving me alone.

I stood there for a long moment, letting the silence stretch, the reality of my situation pressing down like a weight I couldn’t lift. My hands went to my face, wiping at the remnants of tears, shaking slightly as I took a shaky breath, then another. I needed to move. Downstairs. I needed to get downstairs and find some grounding, some sense of normal.

The penthouse felt enormous in the daylight, echoing with every small sound. The luxury was almost suffocating. Every step I took echoed against the marble, making the vast space feel even colder. I padded quietly toward the direction I hoped was the kitchen.

A delicious smell—coffee, something sweet, baked—drifted toward me, guiding me. I followed it cautiously, heart hammering.

Ama looked up from the stove as I entered the doorway, her expression softening into a warm, genuine smile.

“Good morning, miss,” she said.

“Good morning,” I whispered back, voice small, uncertain.

“Well, hello there. I hope you’re hungry,” she said kindly.

I shook my head, embarrassed and hesitant. “I just need to change my outfit and freshen up.”

She nodded. “Of course. Follow me. I laid out some clothes in the guest room closet.”

She started walking down the hall, and a desperate, reckless thought sparked in my mind. Maybe… just maybe…

“Miss… Ama?” I called softly.

She turned back. “Yes, dear?”

I swallowed, feeling my throat tighten with a mix of hope and fear. “Is there a café nearby?”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“I’m craving doughnuts,” I said, almost whispering.

Her face softened immediately, almost affectionate. “Ohhh. I can make them for you. Fresh. Won’t take long.”

I shook my head quickly. “It would take too much time. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she said firmly. “Just wait here. I’ll get the clothes first, then start on the doughnuts.”

She disappeared down the hall, heels clicking softly, leaving me alone.

I waited a few moments, listening to the faint hum of the kitchen appliances, letting my mind wander. Then, almost instinctively, I moved.

I stepped out of the kitchen, eyes scanning the living room. The front door was slightly ajar, not latched all the way. A thin sliver of light revealed the hallway beyond. My pulse quickened.

Yes. This was my chance. My moment.

I hadn’t intended to escape this way. I had used the café as a cover in my mind. But now? Now it felt like fate had handed me a gift.

Without thinking, I ran.

Bare feet silent on the marble, adrenaline propelling me forward. I reached the door and pulled it open wide, letting in the cool hallway air. My heart pounded against my ribs as I bolted toward the elevator.

I slammed the down button repeatedly, willing the doors to open faster. Come on. Come on.

The doors slid open.

And there he was.

August. Standing in the middle of the elevator like he had been waiting all along. Arms crossed. Expression calm, almost bored, as if he had anticipated my every thought.