No.
The word tore out of me—a raw, guttural sound I barely recognized as my own. It wasn't a decision; it was a reflex, a survival instinct screaming from the deepest, most shattered part of me.
I slipped off him—fast, clumsy, my legs buckling like they were made of water.
My body was shaking, naked and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, marked with the red imprint of his fingerprints on my hips, the ghost of his kisses on my neck, the undeniable claim of his scent on my skin.
The tears came then, hot and humiliating, a torrent I couldn't stop. They spilled down my cheeks, salty and sharp, as I scrambled for the blanket at the foot of the bed, yanking the heavy silk around my trembling shoulders.
Covering. Hiding.
From her. From him. From whatever this mess was. She's going to obviously be his girlfriend or woman. I'm the other woman. I'm the who...
"Camilla, listen!"
His voice was a blade—sharp, urgent, slicing through the thick, suffocating air.
