Chapter 15
CAMILLE’S POINT OF VIEW
The fist came at my face too fast to dodge. I tried to block like Jason had taught me, but my arms felt heavy as stone. His knuckles grazed my cheek as I stumbled backward.
“Too slow,” he barked. “Again.”
My lungs burned. Sweat stung my eyes. We’d been at this for almost two hours, and the digital clock on the gym wall showed 5:47 AM. The sun wasn’t even up yet.
Jason Winters stood opposite me on the training mat, barely breathing hard. His military haircut and scarred face gave nothing away, no tiredness, no frustration, just cold assessment. As Victoria’s head of security, he’d protected presidents and royalty before becoming my combat instructor three weeks ago.
“I can’t,“4 gasped, hands on my knees. “Need water.”
“Your sister won’t give you water when she’s destroying everything you love,” he said flatly. “Your ex–husband won’t offer a break when he’s laughing at your weakness,”
The mention of Rose and Stefan sent fresh anger coursing through me. I straightened, raising my fists again. Jason nodded once, approval flickering in his gray eyes. “Channel it. Use it.”
He circled me slowly. I tracked his movement, watching for tells we’d discussed yesterday, the slight shoulder drop before he jabbed, the weight shift before he kicked.
There, his right foot pivoted slightly. I ducked the punch that followed, slipping inside his guard like he’d demonstrated. My counter–strike hit his ribs, not hard enough to damage but enough to make him grunt.
“Better,” he said, stepping back. “You’re learning.”
Those words were the closest thing to praise I’d received since this nightmare training began. Three weeks of waking at 4:30 AM for combat lessons with Jason, followed by business classes, language instruction, etiquette training, and endless other lessons designed to transform me from Camille Lewis into Camille Kane.
“Ten minute break,” Jason said, checking his watch. “Then weapons training.”
I collapsed onto a bench, grabbing my water bottle with shaking hands. My body felt like one massive bruise. Even my fingernails hurt.
In the mirrored wall opposite me, a stranger stared back. My once–long brown hair had been cut into a sleek bob and dyed a rich, darker shade. My face had thinned from the grueling exercise regiment and surgery, cheekbones now sharp enough to cut glass. Designer workout clothes clung to a body that had grown leaner, harder.
I barely recognized myself anymore. Which was exactly the point.
“Water won’t restore your electrolytes,” a crisp voice said from the doorway. Victoria stood there in her impeccable business suit, looking as though she’d been awake for hours. Perhaps she had.
She crossed to me, handing over a green smoothie in a steel tumbler. “Protein, vitamins, minerals. Drink it all.”
The taste was awful–like liquified grass with a hint of metal–but I’d learned not to complain. Victoria didn’t tolerate weakness, especially not from her “daughter.”
“Jason reports improvement,” she said, scrolling through messages on her phone. “Though your defensive
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Chapter 15
reactions remain inadequate.”
“I’ve never fought before,” I muttered, gulping the vile smoothie. “Three weeks ago, my biggest physical challenge was yoga twice a month.”
Victoria’s eyes flicked up from her screen. “And how did this serve you when Rose took everything? discarded you? When those men attacked you in the parking garage?”
When s
The memory of fists connecting with my ribs sent phantom pain through my body. I flinched.
“Exactly,” Victoria said, noting my reaction. “The world doesn’t care about fair. It respects only strength and the willingness to use it.”
She checked her watch, a discreet Patek Philippe that probably cost more than my parents‘ car. “Your meeting with Japanese investors is at nine. After that, corporate finance with Professor Whitman until noon. Lunch with the editor of Vanity Fair, she’s profiling young female entrepreneurs and wants to include Camille Kane.” My stomach dropped. “A journalist? Already? But we’ve barely established my background. What if…”
“The groundwork is laid,” Victoria cut me off. “Your Stanford and Harvard credentials have been verified by three separate media outlets. Your childhood in Swiss boarding schools explains your absence from American social circles. The timing is perfect, mysterious heiress emerges just as public interest peaks.”
Jason returned, carrying a collection of wooden training knives. Victoria nodded to him and turned back to me.
“After lunch, language lessons with Madame Rousseau. Your French remains embarrassingly rudimentary for someone supposedly educated in Switzerland.”
I bit back a retort. Arguing was pointless.
“Then etiquette with Mrs. Harrington from four to six. Dinner with the board members at seven.” She handed me a tablet. “Their profiles. Memorize before tonight.”
The screen showed faces and bios of twelve stern–looking executives, all men over fifty. More names, more details to absorb into my already overloaded brain.
“That’s all for now,” Victoria said, already turning toward the door. “Jason, focus on knife defense today. The weakness in her left side leaves her vulnerable.”
After she left, Jason held out a hand to pull me up from the bench. If I expected gentleness after Victoria’s demanding schedule, his grim expression crushed that hope.
“Knife attacks aren’t like the movies,” he said, demonstrating a slashing motion with the wooden trainer.” They’re fast, dirty, and usually from someone standing closer than you think.”
By 6:30, I had six new bruises and a shallow cut on my forearm where I’d failed to block correctly. By 7:15, I could barely lift my arms to shower.
Staring at the tiles in the massive rainfall shower, I let hot water pound my aching muscles. The bathroom alone in my suite was bigger than my entire first apartment after college. Italian marble, gold fixtures, towels softer than clouds. Luxury surrounded me now, but it felt like a beautiful prison.
I dressed mechanically in the outfit laid out by my new personal stylist, a navy blue Chanel suit, cream silk blouse, and pearls that cost more than a car. My reflection looked polished, wealthy, untouchable.
Exactly as Victoria intended.
The car walted downstairs, James holding the door with hissual stoic expression. Since becoming Victoria’s adopted daughter, I hadn’t driven myself anywhere. Hadn’t cooked a meal, made a bed, or even chosen my own
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clothes. Every aspect of my existence was managed, controlled, shaped.
“The investors are already at the office,” James informed me as we pulled into morning traffic. “Ms. Kane asks that you review the portfolio proposals during the drive.
Another folder, another stack of documents to memorize. Topened it to find prospectuses for three Japanese tech companies seeking American investment, filled with terms barely understood three weeks ago.
I forced myself to focus, absorbing facts and figures, trying to anticipate questions. Victoria would test me later- she always did, with that expectant look that made me feel simultaneously eager to please and resentful of the
need to do so.
By nine o’clock, I sat across from three Japanese businessmen in Victoria’s sleek conference room, speaking confidently about market penetration and competitive advantage like I’d been doing it my whole life. Victoria watched from the head of the table, her face revealing nothing.
When we closed the deal an hour later, securing exclusive investment rights for less than the companies had initially asked, a flicker of approval crossed her face.
“Well done,” she said after they left, the closest thing to praise she’d offered since our training began. “Your preparation was evident.”
The tiny scrap of acknowledgment shouldn’t have meant so much, but I felt warmth bloom in my chest. Then hated myself for craving her approval at all.
Professor Whitman arrived next, a stern Harvard economist who treated me like an ignorant child despite my supposed MBA from his institution. For three hours, he grilled me on corporate finance structures until my head throbbed and equations swam before my eyes.
“Your grasp of leveraged buyouts remains superficial,” he noted as he packed up, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Review chapters seven through twelve before tomorrow.”
I nodded, though the thought of more studying after today’s schedule made me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Lunch with the Vanity Fair editor was a special kind of torture. Maintaining my new identity while answering personal questions about a childhood that never happened required constant vigilance.
“So what was it like, growing up as Victoria Kane’s secret daughter?” she asked, recorder running between our plates at the exclusive restaurant Victoria had chosen.
I gave the practiced answer, natural enough to sound genuine. “Private. Sheltered. Mom was always concerned about my safety, especially after what happened to her first family,”
The editor leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, the tragic accident that claimed her husband and son. You would have been, what, eight when that happened?”
“Ten,” I corrected smoothly, though in reality, I’d been thirteen when Victoria’s family died, a fact I’d memorized from public records rather than personal experience. “Too young to fully understand, but old enough to see how it changed her.”
“And being sent abroad afterward? That must have been difficult.”
“She wanted me safe,” I replied, the rehearsed explanation flowing naturally now. “The isolation was challenging, but it forged independence. Mother always says strength grows from discomfort.”
The editor scribbled notes, clearly loving the narrative of the mysterious heiress emerging from seclusion. By the time lunch ended, she’d extracted enough quotes for a glowing profile that would further cement my new identity.
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Chapter 15
I checked my watch as her taxi pulled away. Twenty minutes to reach Madame Rousseau’s language studio. Not enough time to rest. Never enough time.
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