CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

~ Camilla

I stood in front of Stephano’s office door like it was the gates of hell.

No, scratch that. The gates of hell wished they were this intimidating. At least hell came with flames and tortured screams. This door? This stupid, glossy, mahogany door? It came with memories. Moans. The unholy soundtrack of my life unraveling in the space of one very, very bad decision.

And by “bad,” I obviously meant toe-curling, sheet-gripping, thigh-shaking amazing.

God. I was a mess.

My hands were clammy. My heart was somewhere between my throat and my stomach. And my inner voice? Oh, she was practically drunk and screaming into a...