Chapter 11
Camille
Idrop my bags on the floor and collapse onto the couch, the springs groaning beneath me.
Nothing feels right anymore. I'm not the same person who left for Antigua a week ago. That Camille was whole. That Camille hadn't been split open and left behind by Alexander Kingsley.
The note sits in my purse, folded and refolded so many times the creases are starting to tear. I know every cold, impersonal word by heart. "Called back to New York on urgent business." The professional tone. The fucking bonus payment, like I was just another transaction he needed to close out.
My phone buzzes with a text from Izzy.
Coffee in 20? Need to see your face and make sure you're alive.
I text back a thumbs up and force myself off the couch. A shower helps a little, hot water washing away the airplane smell if not the hollowness in my chest. I dress in jeans and an oversized sweater—attempting to create some cozy-ness against the April chill.
Izzy's already at our usual spot when I arrive, two steaming mugs on the table and a plate with my favorite lemon scones. Her eyes widen when she sees me, and I realize I must look worse than I thought.
"Jesus, Cami," she says, standing to hug me. She smells like that expensive perfume she splurges on. "You look like you got a first-class ticket on Heartbreak Airlines."
I sink into the chair across from her. "That's pretty much what happened."
Izzy pushes a coffee toward me. "Spill. And I don't mean the coffee."
"He left." The words taste bitter. Izzy knows so much of this story through texts but she doesn’t know about the ending. "After... after everything. After the things we did. He just... left."
"What do you mean 'left'?" Izzy's perfectly penciled eyebrows scrunch together.
I pull the crumpled note from my purse and slide it across the table. Izzy reads it, her expression darkening with each line.
"That motherfucker," she whispers, then louder, "Asshole."
An older woman at the next table glances over with disapproval, but Izzy doesn't notice or care.
"He left you a NOTE?" She slaps the paper down. "After taking your virginity? After all that romantic shit on the sailboat you told me about?"
I wince. "Keep your voice down."
"I will not." She lowers her voice anyway. "Please let me hate-bomb that asshole. I'll write shit reviews on his properties. I'll tell everyone he has a tiny dick."
Despite everything, I choke out a laugh. "He definitely doesn't have that problem."
"Ugh, that makes it worse." Izzy tears a scone in half with unnecessary violence. "So he's good in bed AND a complete dickhead. The worst combination."
I wrap my hands around my mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. "I feel so stupid, Izz. I knew what this was. What he was. But then he'd look at me a certain way or say something that made me think..."
"That he wasn't just another rich asshole using his power to get laid?" She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "You're not stupid. He's manipulative. It's what guys like him do."
"The worst part is I still want him." My voice catches. "How pathetic is that? He treated me like a fuck buddy, and I'm sitting here missing him."
Izzy's eyes soften. "Not pathetic. Human." She takes a sip of her coffee. "It was your first time. With an experienced guy who apparently knows what he's doing. That creates feelings, even when the guy doesn't deserve them."
I pick at my scone, my appetite gone. "I don't even recognize myself, Izz. A week ago, I was this focused, ambitious person with a plan. Now I'm... what? Pining over some jerk who couldn't even say goodbye to my face?"
"You're still that person." Izzy's voice turns fierce. "You nailed that project. Don't let what happened in the bedroom erase that."
I nod, wanting to believe her. "It just feels like he took something from me that I can't get back. And I don't mean my virginity."
"Your dreams?" Izzy suggests, gentler now.
"Maybe." I stare into my coffee. "Or maybe just my confidence that I know what I'm doing."
"None of us know what we're doing, babe." She reaches for my hand again. "Especially not with men. They're basically a different species."
We sit in silence for a moment. A barista calls out an order. Someone laughs too loudly. Life continuing as if mine hasn't been upended.
"Seriously though," Izzy says, her tone lightening. "Just say the word and I will destroy him online."
I manage a small smile. "I appreciate the offer, but no. It would be unprofessional."
"Fuck professional. He's the one who crossed that line." She narrows her eyes. "At least let me key his car?"
This time my laugh feels more genuine. "You're ridiculous."
"That's why you love me."
She raises her mug. "To moving on from emotionally stunted dickheads."
I clink my mug against hers, but inside, I'm not sure I'm ready to move on. The memory of Alexander is too fresh, too raw. The way he looked at me while he was fucking me, the feel of his body against mine. How can I move on when every part of me still tingles at the thought of him?
"Thanks, Izz," I say instead. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably something boring and sensible." She grins. "Now finish your scone. Carbs help heal heartbreak. It's proven science."
I take a bite, tasting nothing. The coffee shop buzzes around us, and I try to anchor myself in this moment, with my best friend, in my city.
Away from Antigua. Away from him. But even as I smile at Izzy's jokes, a part of me is still waiting for Alexander to walk back through the door and tell me it was all a mistake.
The worst part is knowing he won't.
The doorman at my parents' Upper East Side building nods in recognition as I step inside the marble lobby.
"Good morning, Miss Montclair." He's been working here since I was a teenager, but somehow, I've never learned his name.
Just another symptom of the world I grew up in—people in service roles reduced to their functions.
I smooth down my navy dress, chosen carefully to look "appropriate" by my mother's standards, and try to ignore the knot in my stomach. Sunday brunch: a Montclair family tradition and my personal monthly purgatory.
The elevator ascends silently to the penthouse floor.
I check my reflection in its mirrored wall, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my ear.
There's a small hickey at the base of my neck that my collar doesn't quite cover.
A souvenir from Alexander that I couldn't bring myself to conceal with makeup.
A reminder that at least for a few days, he wanted me.
The doors slide open directly into my parents' foyer. Mother is already waiting, perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect smile paired with those cold ice-blue eyes.
"Camille, darling. You're three minutes late." She air-kisses both my cheeks, the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 enveloping me. "Your father's waiting in the dining room."
No "How are you?" No "How was your trip?" Just straight into criticism. I follow her across the expansive living room with its cream furniture that no one ever sits on.
Dad looks up from his newspaper when I enter the dining room. "There she is, our globetrotter." He stands to kiss my cheek, his aftershave sharp and expensive. "Back from your little Caribbean vacation."
And there it is. The dismissal of my work.
"It wasn't a vacation, Dad. It was a major project for Kingsley Resorts." I take my usual seat, immediately reaching for the coffee our housekeeper has just poured. "I was designing their new luxury property."
"Of course, of course." He waves his hand dismissively. "But you must have had some time to enjoy yourself. Got some sun. The tan looks good on you."
Mother takes a delicate bite of her croissant. "Did you meet anyone interesting?"
The question sends a jolt through me. For a wild moment, I consider telling them about Alexander—about how the billionaire CEO bent me over his desk and fucked me until I could barely speak.
How he took my virginity and then discarded me with a note.
Just to see their perfectly composed faces crack with shock.
Instead, I say, "Just other contractors and the resort staff. It was a working trip."
"Such a shame." Mother sighs. "All those wealthy vacationers, and you're focused on... curtain fabrics."
"Interior design is a bit more than curtain fabrics, Mom." I stab a piece of fruit with my fork. "The right design can transform a space, create emotional responses, influence behavior—"
"Yes, yes, we know your little speech." She smiles tightly. "But really, Camille, you're twenty-four. Shouldn't you be thinking about more important things by now?"
"My career is important to me." The words come out sharper than intended.
Dad folds his newspaper. "Speaking of important matters. Helen and Richard Bradford's son is back in town. Bradford Financial? Very successful young man. Graduated Harvard Business two years ago."
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. "Patrick Bradford?"
"That's the one!" Dad beams. "Handsome fellow. Taking over the family business soon."
"I know who he is." My appetite vanishes. "He has a reputation."
Mother's eyebrows rise fractionally. "A reputation for excellence, I’m sure. His father says he's already bringing in new clients."
"That's not the reputation I'm talking about." I set my fork down carefully. "Three girls from school have stories about him. None of them good."
"Gossip," Mother dismisses with a wave. "Young women can be so vindictive when relationships don't work out."
"He drugged Melissa Winters' drink at a fraternity party." The words hang in the air between us.
Dad clears his throat. "Those accusations were never proven. The Bradfords are a good family."
"With good money," I add pointedly.
"Well, yes." Mother doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. "Financial stability is important in a marriage, Camille. Your little... hobby... isn't going to maintain the lifestyle you're accustomed to."