Camille let out a frustrated sigh, her fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve. “He wants a relationship. I don’t.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really? A moment ago, you were passionately ranting about Elijah being heartless. Now, you’re pulling the same move!”
“I know. I’m a hypocrite,” Camille admitted with a half-smile, entirely unashamed.
Her pout returned as she leaned back into the couch. “The truth is, my family’s already climbing the social ladder by associating with the Murray family. If Albin and I were to actually date, I can already see how my parents would react. They’d practically roll out the red carpet for him and expect me to play the perfect little hostess.”
Her voice hardened, her fingers tightening into fists. “I’ve been rebelling against my family’s control since high school. I fought so hard to make my own choices, to keep my relationships mine and mine alone—not tools for their ambitions. If, after all that effort, I still end up right back where I started, then what was the point of everything I’ve done?”
Camille continued, her tone softening. “It’s better this way. Rather than risking a messy fallout later, I’d rather enjoy what we have while it lasts. That way, years from now, I can look back on him fondly—not as someone I hurt or someone who hurt me.”
Elizabeth hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “But… what if it doesn’t end the way you’re imagining? What if things actually turn out better than you expect? Isn’t this a bit too pessimistic?”
Camille shook her head, firm and resolute. “I’m not willing to gamble on that. Right now, I still have clarity, still have control. But if we were to take the next step, I’d fall too deep. Love’s like a runaway horse—once it starts, there’s no stopping it.”
Elizabeth admired her honesty, though it was tinged with sadness. “What does Albin think about all this?”
“Oh, he probably thinks I’m a playgirl,” Camille said with a dismissive shrug. Her lips quirked into an ironic smile. “It’s funny, really. It was my first sexual experience, but if that’s what he wants to believe, fine. The last thing I need is for Albin to feel like he has to take responsibility. I don’t need that. How can chastity define a woman’s worth in this modern age?”
Meanwhile, at a villa in Fayedge Hot Spring…
Daxton lounged on the plush leather couch, his usual polished demeanor replaced with something far more menacing. His left ankle rested casually on his right knee, and one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch. In his free hand, he spun a small pistol, the motion hypnotic and deliberate.
A few feet away, Mr. James knelt on the marble floor, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind. Sweat poured down his round face as he stammered, “M-Mr. Garcia, I—”
Daxton didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the gun as he flipped the safety off with a quiet click. His voice was calm but icy. “Didn’t I make myself clear the last time we spoke?”
Terror widened Mr. James’s eyes, and he scrambled for excuses. “M-Mr. Garcia, it wasn’t my idea! My people—my idiots—they thought you liked Ms. Elizabeth, so they drugged her cola. I had no idea someone else would show up instead—”
Daxton’s cold gaze shifted to him, freezing Mr. James mid-sentence. “So, in your understanding, liking someone equates to drugging them?” he said slowly, his tone laced with disdain. “Do I look that desperate to you?”
“N-no, of course not!” Mr. James stammered, his voice cracking. “I-I’ll take care of those fools immediately. Please, Mr. Garcia, believe me!”
Daxton didn’t respond, instead, he toyed with the pistol in his hand.
Mr. James watched him, hoping to catch a reaction from him. Seeing none, he gritted his teeth and slapped himself hard across the face.
Daxton continued spinning the gun, his indifference more terrifying than any anger.
Panicked, Mr. James began slapping himself again, harder this time. Blood welled at the corners of his mouth as he struck himself over and over.
The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the villa.
After what felt like an eternity—his face swollen and unrecognizable—
Daxton finally stood. With an almost lazy motion, he tossed the pistol to an aide. “This model is garbage. Get a better supplier next time,” he said.
The model?
Mr. James’s eyes widened in disbelief. The gun was fake?
Relief flooded him, and he exhaled shakily.
But just as he began to feel safe, Daxton’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Send him to that place,” Daxton said coldly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “He’s banned from Mothor. And find someone suitable to take over Fayedge hot spring—then sell it. This place has no purpose anymore.”
Mr. James froze in sheer terror. That place!
The whispers of it alone were enough to strike fear into anyone. A lawless, brutal hellhole—once you were sent there, you never returned.
“Mr. Garcia, I was wrong! Please, just one more chance!” Mr. James begged, his voice hoarse and desperate as blood dripped from his swollen lips.
But Daxton didn’t even glance at him.
The mercenaries—tall, foreign men who radiated silent authority—dragged Mr. James away, ignoring his cries and struggles.
