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I feel a physical blow in my gut from seeing Camille DuBois in the flesh. My eyes stop on the scar in the middle of her back where the bullet hit.
It punctured her lung and missed her heart by the width of a hair strand.
I shake my head so the memory of that day can’t take root and drag me down to the pool of guilt that’s been festering for ten years in my chest.
I have no problem taking a life if the person is an evil fuck who deserves a bullet to the head. But killing an innocent doesn’t sit well with me. It’s the one thing I won’t do.
Camille turns, and I catch sight of a polite smile as she nods at the couple she’s talking to.
Christ, she looks like an angel.
Her beauty shines from her like the sun, and I can see people gravitating toward her as she glides across the floor in the direction of a group of girls. Her smile brightens a little as she joins them.
Camille looks like a wet dream in heels.
I walk to the bar and order, “Vodka. Neat. No ice.”
The bartender nods, and while he pours the drink, I take in all the other people before scrutinizing Camille’s ‘friends.’
To Camille’s left stands Juliette Faure, the redhead who’s set to marry the son of a billionaire. The other three ‘friends,’ Brigitte Bancel, Sophie Renoir, and Liliane De Rothschild, are beneath Camille and Juliette in status and tend to follow the two women around like lapdogs.
I sayfriendsbecause none of those women give a shit about each other. It’s all about status. Who you’re seen hanging out with is printed in magazines and newspapers the next day, and that shit’s important to these people.
I guess it’s the same in my world. It’s seldom you’re lucky to have a real friend.
My eyes lock on Camille again, and I take in every exquisite detail of her. How she carries herself around other people. The fake smile. The stiffness in her spine. The half-full champagne glass that looks more like a prop than a drink she’s enjoying.
She’s not enjoying herself.
I catch her glancing at her phone, and relief flickers across her features.
When Camille says goodbye to the other women and sets the flute down on a table, I forget about my own drink and follow her out of the conference room.
The moment she’s away from prying eyes, her shoulders slump a little, and she takes a deep breath.
She looks exhausted.
I tail her out of the hotel and watch as she walks toward a Bugatti. She doesn’t look around her, then climbs into the vehicle and drives away.
She’s an easy target.
I could’ve killed her ten different ways in the five minutes it took her to reach her car. Never mind, taking her out on the way to her home.
Christ, this job is going to take patience I don’t have.
Chapter 2
Cami
(One week later…)
Walking into my family home, where every nook and cranny is filled with memories from my childhood, my body relaxes.
There are only two places on this planet where I don’t have to pretend – my penthouse and my father’s house.
Everywhere else, I have to be the perfect socialite.
The aroma of roasted chicken and garlic hangs in the air. My stomach grumbles, and I head to the kitchen, where Philippe is busy preparing my favorite meal. He’s been my father’s chef for over twenty years and is practically a member of the family.
