Chapter 2
Camille
I'm sprawled across my couch, one arm flung over my eyes, the other dangling to the floor where my fingers absently comb through the fraying edge of my ancient area rug.
Two days since The Interview From Hell, and I still can't think about it without my mind imploding.
I've replayed each mortifying moment so many times that the memories have developed their own memories.
"Here." Izzy's voice cuts through my existential crisis as she shoves a bowl of popcorn at me. "Eat your feelings. I've added extra butter and shame."
I grunt in response but make no move to take the bowl.
"Come on, Cami. You've been marinating in misery for two days now. The popcorn's getting cold and my sympathy's getting stale."
"Your sympathy has an expiration date?" I finally move my arm, squinting up at her.
"Forty-eight hours for career setbacks. Seventy-two for breakups. A full week for deaths, but only immediate family." She plops down on the couch beside me, forcing me to pull my legs back to make room. "I don't make the rules."
"It wasn't just a career setback," I mumble, finally accepting the popcorn bowl. "I showed Alexander Kingsley a website full of dildos, spilled coffee on his white shirt, and then grabbed his dick. I think that qualifies as a career cremation."
"You didn't grab his dick," Izzy corrects, reaching for the wine bottle on the coffee table. "You fell and your hand landed in his general crotch region. Totally different."
"Oh my god." I cover my face with both hands, the popcorn bowl wobbling precariously on my stomach. "I touched his—"
"Penis-adjacent area," Izzy supplies helpfully, pouring wine into two glasses that definitely weren't meant for wine. "And hey, at least you made an impression. Bet none of the other candidates can say that."
"That's not the kind of impression you want to make on Alexander Kingsley." I peek at her through my fingers. "He's probably still sanitizing his conference room. Probably burned the chair I sat in."
Izzy snorts, handing me a too-full glass. "Please. Men like that don't care about a little awkwardness. They're too busy counting their money and plotting world domination."
"It wasn't a little awkwardness, Izz. It was a category five disaster." I take a generous gulp of wine, not caring that it's some cheap brand that tastes like it was fermented in a college dorm room. "And now I haven't heard anything, which obviously means I didn't get the job."
"So dramatic." Izzy rolls her eyes, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "Rich people don't have time for revenge campaigns against random job applicants. They're busy doing... I don't know, whatever rich people do. Buying islands. Racing yachts. Avoiding taxes."
"You don't understand." I set my glass down. "This industry runs on reputation and connections. One word from Alexander Kingsley that I'm unprofessional, and I might as well change careers."
"So change careers." Izzy shrugs, her mouth full of popcorn. "Become a... I don't know, a professional dog walker. A tarot card reader. Ooh, you could design sex toys since you're already so familiar with the product."
I throw a handful of popcorn at her face. "Not helping."
"What? You'd be great at it. 'This vibrator features ergonomic curves and a sleek, minimalist aesthetic,'" she mimics, gesturing grandly with her wine glass. "'The perfect statement piece for your bedside table.'"
Despite myself, a laugh bubbles out. "You're the worst."
"And yet, you love me." She grins, victorious at having made me smile.
My phone chimes with an email notification, and I lunge for it like a starving wolf offered a feast, nearly upending the popcorn bowl in the process. It's just a promotional email from a furniture store, and my face falls.
"Still nothing?" Izzy asks, her voice softening.
"Still nothing." I toss the phone back onto the coffee table. "Not even a courtesy 'thanks but no thanks' email. Just... silence."
"His loss." Izzy settles back, patting my knee. "Seriously, Cami. You're talented as hell. This isn't the only project out there."
"But it was the perfect project." I stare at the ceiling, following a hairline crack that’s been growing for months. "Designing a Kingsley resort from the ground up? That's the kind of project that makes a career. I'd have been able to pick and choose my clients after that."
"There will be other perfect opportunities," Izzy insists. "Maybe even better ones. Ones that don't involve working with some asshole billionaire with a superiority complex."
"You’ve never even met him," I protest weakly, though I'm not sure why I'm defending a man who has probably already forgotten my name.
"I know the type." Izzy tops off our glasses. "Besides, would you really want to work with someone who can't laugh off an honest mistake? Who holds a little tech mishap against you?"
I sigh, reaching for my wine. "I guess not. But still... those resorts are legendary. The budgets are unlimited. The creative freedom..." I trail off, the familiar ache of wanting something beyond my reach settling in my chest.
"Tell you what." Izzy grabs the remote. "If that email doesn't come in the next twenty-four hours, we're going to make a voodoo doll of Alexander Kingsley and stick pins in very specific areas."
"You mean his crotch."
"Of course I do." She scrolls through Netflix. "Now, let's watch hot people make terrible romantic decisions to make ourselves feel better about our own lives."
"Bachelor night?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Bachelor night," she confirms. "Nothing like watching desperate women fight over one mediocre man to put your problems in perspective."
I sigh and toss my phone aside, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
"Fuck Alexander Kingsley," Izzy says suddenly, raising her glass.
"Fuck Alexander Kingsley," I echo, clinking my glass against hers, ignoring the treacherous part of my brain that immediately conjures an image of exactly that scenario—his tall frame, those piercing eyes, those hands that looked so capable of—
I drain my wine in one long gulp.
"Whoa, easy there." Izzy raises an eyebrow. "I meant it metaphorically, not as an actual suggestion."
"Shut up and start the show," I mutter, my cheeks warming.
She does, and as the familiar opening music starts, I try to lose myself in the manufactured drama on screen. But my mind keeps circling back to that conference room, to the weight of those green eyes on me, to the opportunity I squandered in spectacular fashion.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll start fresh. Look for new opportunities. Move on.
But tonight, I'm allowing myself this: wine, junk food, reality TV, and the luxury of complete and utter self-pity.
"I think I'm actually developing feelings for this guy," Izzy announces thirty minutes later, gesturing at the screen.
I grunt noncommittally, only half-watching as I scroll through my Instagram feed with my thumb, double-tapping photos of other designers' work while trying not to spiral into professional jealousy.
My phone buzzes with a new email notification, and I almost ignore it—probably just another promotional message or a newsletter I keep forgetting to unsubscribe from—but the sender's name makes my thumb freeze mid-scroll: Alexander Kingsley.
Not his assistant. Not HR. Alexander Kingsley himself.
"Holy shit," I whisper, bolting upright and sloshing wine onto my sweatpants.
"What?" Izzy asks, eyes still glued to the screen where twenty-five identically-styled women are introducing themselves to a man with suspiciously perfect teeth.
I can't answer. Can't even breathe properly as I tap on the notification with a shaking finger. The email loads, and I blink hard, convinced I'm hallucinating after two days of self-pity.
Ms. Montclair,
After reviewing all candidates, I've decided to offer you the design contract for the Antigua resort property. Your portfolio demonstrates a vision that aligns with the Kingsley brand, and your concepts show promise.
I had planned to inform you earlier, but other projects required my attention longer than anticipated.
I depart for Antigua tomorrow at 2 PM. If you wish to accept this position, you will join me on this flight.
We'll spend approximately one week on-site for initial assessments before returning to finalize the designs.
My assistant has attached the contract, NDA, and travel details. The compensation is non-negotiable but reflects the project's scope and prestige. Sign and return all documents by 9 am tomorrow if you wish to proceed.
A car will pick you up at 12 pm sharp.
Alexander Kingsley
CEO, Kingsley International
I read it twice. Three times. Run my finger over the screen as if touching the words might confirm they're real.
"Cami? What’s going on?" Izzy waves her hand in front of my face.
"I got it," I whisper, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "I got the job."
Izzy's eyes widen. "What? Let me see!" She lunges across the couch, snatching the phone from my still-frozen hands.
Her eyes scan the screen, growing larger with each line.
"Holy shit! Holy. Shit." She looks up at me, jaw hanging open.
"You're going to Antigua. Tomorrow. With Mr. Hot Dick Billionaire. "
"I can’t believe that—" I start, then shake my head.
Izzy scrolls through the attachments. "Jesus, look at this contract. The compensation is... Cami. That’s a shit-ton of money."
My stomach flips. I haven't even looked at the contract yet, too stunned by the email itself. "He can't be serious. He can't actually want me after that disaster of an interview."
"Apparently, he can and does." Izzy hands my phone back. "Maybe he was impressed by your, uh, hands-on approach."
"Not funny." But I'm starting to smile, the reality slowly sinking in. I got the job. The dream job. The career-making job. "Oh my god, I got the job."
"You got the job!" Izzy squeals, throwing her arms around me. "I knew it! I told you!"