Chapter 11 #2
"My career," I correct her. "And it's already paying my bills."
"The rent on that tiny apartment, perhaps." She sniffs. "But what about when you want children? A summer home? Private schools?"
"I don't need a man to provide those things."
Dad chuckles like I've said something adorably naive. "Be realistic, sweetheart. Interior design is fine for now, but it's not a real career. Not for someone with your background."
The dismissal burns. After years, it shouldn't still hurt, but it does. "Alexander Kingsley seemed to think I was talented enough to recommend me to his business associates."
"Well, that's something at least. Good connections are important."
Of course that's what impresses him. Not my work, but my proximity to wealth and power.
"We just want what's best for you, darling." Mother reaches across to pat my hand. Her diamond tennis bracelet catches the light. "And what's best is finding a suitable husband before you're... well, before options become limited."
"I'm twenty-four, not forty-four." I pull my hand away. "And I'd rather be alone than with someone like Patrick Bradford."
"Don't be dramatic." She sighs. "I've invited the Bradfords to the charity gala next month. You could come. Wear that blue Valentino—it makes your eyes pop."
I push my chair back from the table. "I have plans that weekend."
"Cancel them." It's not a suggestion.
"No." The word comes out quiet but firm. "I won't be paraded around for Patrick Bradford or anyone else. If my career choices and lifestyle are such disappointments to you both, maybe we should take a break from these brunches for a while."
Mother's face goes rigid. Dad looks genuinely confused, as if he can't comprehend why I'm being difficult.
"You're being overly sensitive," Mother says after a moment. "No one is disappointed in you. We just want more for you than... decorating rooms."
"Creating spaces," I correct her. "Spaces that make people feel something. That's what I do, and I'm good at it."
I stand up, smoothing my dress again. "I should go. I have work to prepare for tomorrow."
"On Sunday?" Mother looks scandalized.
"Yes, mother. Some of us work for a living," I say, immediately regretting the petty jab.
Dad frowns. "There's no need for that tone, Camille."
"You're right. I'm sorry." I'm not, really, but the conditioning to apologize runs deep. "Thank you for brunch."
I leave without the customary kisses goodbye.
In the elevator, I exhale slowly, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders only to be replaced by a familiar hollow ache.
No matter what I achieve professionally, I'll never be enough for them.
Not unless I marry into money and status, the only things they value.
The doorman gives me a sympathetic smile as I exit. Maybe he recognizes the look of someone who's just survived another Montclair family gathering. Or maybe he's just being polite.
I take a deep breath and walk away from the building, away from their expectations and disappointments. Between Alexander's rejection and my parents' dismissal, I feel small and insignificant.
I pop my earbuds in and blast my favorite playlist the whole way home.
When I arrive, I plop down on the couch and sit cross-legged, laptop balanced on my knees.
The design board on my screen blurs as my mind drifts back to Antigua, to Alexander, to the note.
I blink hard, refocusing. This is my life now – back to normal, back to the hustle of freelance design work.
Back to being just me, not Alexander Kingsley's. .. whatever I was to him.
The notification sound from my email pulls me back to reality. I click over to my inbox and freeze when I see the name in the sender field: Julian Fairfax.
My heart stutters. Julian Fairfax—one of Alexander's friends that he mentioned in his goodbye note. The professional recommendation he'd tossed my way like some consolation prize for no longer having access to his bed.
I open the email with trembling fingers.
Subject: Community Center Project - Design Consultation
Hi Camille,
Alex Kingsley mentioned you might be the perfect designer for a project I've got in the works – a community center for underserved kids in Brooklyn. It's a place where they can do homework, hang out safely after school, and play sports.
I'd love to chat about your vision for creating a space that's welcoming but also functional and durable (these are kids, after all—they destroy everything). Alex was practically gushing about your work, which is rare—the man usually communicates in grunts.
Are you free for a coffee this week to discuss?
Cheers,
Julian Fairfax
I read it twice, stuck on the phrase "Alex was practically gushing about your work." Gushing? Alexander Kingsley doesn't gush. He appraises. He evaluates. He makes calculated decisions based on value and return on investment.
Was I just another good investment? A talented designer he could refer to friends even after he was done with me personally?
I don't have time to process this before my phone rings. Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something makes me answer.
"Hello?"
"Camille Montclair?" A deep voice, cool and measured.
"Yes..."
"This is Tristan Vale. Alexander Kingsley suggested I contact you regarding a design project."
My stomach drops. I sit up straighter, professional instincts kicking in despite my emotional whiplash. Why is he calling on a Sunday? Do these people ever take a day off?
"Mr. Vale. Yes, of course. What can I help you with?"
"I'm developing a series of luxury penthouses in Manhattan. The model units need a designer who understands minimalism without sacrificing warmth. Alexander said that describes your aesthetic perfectly."
I swallow hard. "He did?"
"Yes. He was quite insistent that you’re a good fit for the project." Tristan's voice remains neutral, revealing nothing about what else Alexander might have told him. "I've reviewed your portfolio online. Your work is impressive."
"Thank you." The words come out automatically.
"I'd like you to come to my office tomorrow morning to discuss specifics. My assistant will email you the details."
No "are you available?" Just an assumption that I'll drop everything for this opportunity. The arrogance reminds me so much of Alexander that I almost laugh.
"I'll check my schedule when I receive the email," I say, refusing to be completely bulldozed.
A brief pause. "Very well. I look forward to our meeting." He hangs up without saying goodbye.
I set my phone down slowly, my mind racing. What is happening? Alexander dumps me with a cold note, then apparently sings my praises to his wealthy friends? It doesn't make sense.
Unless it does. Unless the professional and personal were always completely separate in his mind. I gave him good sex and good designs. He's done with one but still values the other.
The thought should make me angry, but instead I feel a confusing mix of pride and hurt. He thinks I'm talented enough to recommend to his inner circle. But not worth a proper goodbye.
My phone pings with Tristan Vale's assistant's email. The meeting is scheduled for 9 am.
Two major potential clients in one day. The kind of connections that could elevate Evoque Design to a whole new level. The kind of work that might finally make my parents see my career as legitimate.
All thanks to Alexander.
I stare at my phone, debating. The professional thing would be to thank him for the referrals. A simple text acknowledging his recommendation and expressing gratitude. Nothing personal. Nothing that reveals how much he hurt me.
I type, delete, type again.
Thank you for recommending me to Tristan Vale and Julian Fairfax. I appreciate it.
Too formal? Too cold? But what else can I say? By the way, thanks for disappearing after taking my virginity?
I hit send before I can overthink it further.
The message shows as delivered. I watch the screen, hoping for those three dots to appear, indicating he's typing a response. Nothing happens.
Of course not. Alexander Kingsley doesn't explain himself to anyone.
I set my phone face down on the coffee table and turn back to my laptop.
I should be ecstatic, carefully planning my presentations.
Instead, I find myself wondering if I'll see Alexander at some point during these projects. If our paths will cross at meetings or events. What I'll say to him if they do.
I force the thoughts away and open a new design document. Julian's community center needs to be warm, inviting, but durable. Tristan's penthouses need to be minimalist yet welcoming. I can do this. This is what I'm good at.
My phone remains silent as the night goes on. No response from Alexander. I didn't really expect one.
But the opportunities he's sent my way? Those are very real. And maybe that's the only language Alexander Kingsley speaks fluently – the language of business, of opportunity, of professional respect.
It's not what I wanted from him. But it might be all I get.