Because she didn't want to, she couldn't.
But Lambert's gaze was heavy with oppressive authority.
Even staring at her lap, Camilla could feel the weight of his stare burning into her.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to speak the harsh truth. "Because I don't want to be involved with you anymore, Mr. White. That's why I can't accept your help."
Dead silence fell over the room.
The air grew thick, as if time itself had frozen.
Camilla felt like she couldn't even draw a breath.
She gripped her silverware tightly, using it as an anchor to ground herself.
*Clack.*
Lambert dropped his fork onto the table.
Camilla's eyelashes fluttered. A suffocating wave of dread pressed down on her chest, signaling an approaching storm.
"You don't want to be involved with me... what is that supposed to mean?"
His voice was a dangerously low, frigid murmur. Camilla could hear the undercurrent of simmering fury.
"Exactly what it sounds like," she said, rallying her courage to meet his eyes. "You should understand, Mr. White."
"I don't." His dark, predatory gaze locked onto hers. "The prerequisite for not wanting to be involved with someone is hating them. If you hate me, why were you drawing me?"
The room plunged back into silence.
Camilla tore her gaze away, staring at the wall.
His eyes were too deep, too intense—like staring into an abyss that threatened to pull her under if she looked too long.
She had to look away.
"Give me an answer."
It was clear he wouldn't let this go until he got one.
Camilla set her silverware down. "You're right. The prerequisite is hating you."
Lambert's breath hitched in his throat.
She said she hated him.


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