Chapter 12
Tristan
Icheck my watch for the third time in five minutes.
It’s five minutes after nine. She's late.
I hate late. My schedule runs with military precision for a reason—because time is the one resource even I can't buy more of.
Her portfolio shows promise, but punctuality speaks volumes about reliability, and right now, Camille Montclair isn't scoring points in that department.
My intercom buzzes. "Mr. Vale?" My assistant's voice carries that particular tone she uses when she's about to deliver news she knows I won't like.
"Yes, Maggie?"
"Miss Montclair is on the line. She says she's running about ten minutes late and extends her sincerest apologies."
I press my fingers to my temple. "Did she offer an explanation?"
"Something about car trouble, sir."
Of course. The most predictable excuse in the book. "Tell her I'll still see her, but my time is limited." I don't try to mask my irritation.
"Yes, sir."
I turn back to my computer, firing off three emails in quick succession. Alexander's recommendation carries weight—he doesn't waste time on mediocrity—but professionalism is non-negotiable in my world. I've terminated contracts over less.
The penthouse project requires someone with vision.
The units need to feel exclusive without being cold, minimalist without feeling empty.
Not an easy balance to strike. Alexander claimed Camille understood that balance intuitively, but perhaps his judgment was clouded by other factors.
He didn't elaborate on their working relationship, but something in his tone when he mentioned her name suggested complications.
When Maggie finally announces Camille's arrival at nine-fifteen, I'm even more irritated. I consider making her wait, a petty power play I sometimes employ, but decide against it.
"Send her in."
I don't rise from my desk when the door opens. I expect to see someone flustered, apologetic, perhaps intimidated by the situation.
What I don't expect is her.
Camille Montclair is small—that's my first impression.
Delicate. Blonde hair frames a face that's both youthful and somehow completely self-possessed.
Her blue eyes meet mine directly, no hint of intimidation despite the circumstances.
She's dressed professionally in a simple black dress that looks expensive in that understated way that actually costs more than flashy clothing.
Something shifts in my chest, a subtle realignment I wasn't prepared for.
"Mr. Vale," she says, crossing my office with confident steps. "I'm truly sorry for the delay. My car wouldn't start, and the Uber took forever."
Her voice is soft but clear, with none of the breathless rushing I expected. She extends her hand, and I find myself standing to take it.
"Ms. Montclair." Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is firm. "I appreciate you making it eventually."
A slight smile touches her lips at my dry tone. "I value punctuality as much as you do, I promise. This isn't typical for me."
I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Let's hope not."
She takes the seat gracefully, placing her portfolio on her lap. Up close, I notice details I missed—the slight shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders despite her composed expression.
"Alexander Kingsley speaks highly of your work," I say, watching her carefully.
Something flickers across her face at his name—a micro-expression so brief I almost miss it. Pain? Annoyance? Whatever it is, she masks it quickly.
"I'm grateful for his recommendation," she says evenly. Professional, controlled. But there's something underneath. Something happened between them in Antigua. The question is whether it will affect her ability to work with me.
"Tell me about your approach to minimalist spaces," I say, moving the conversation to safer ground.
She opens her portfolio and slides it across to me. "Minimalism isn't about emptiness—it's about intention. Every element that remains should serve either function or beauty, preferably both."
I flip through her designs. They're good—better than good. There's a thoughtfulness to her work, a consideration of how spaces feel to inhabit, not just how they look in photographs.
"These designs," I say, pausing on renderings of what must be Alexander's resort. "The integration of indoor and outdoor elements is impressive."
"Thank you." She leans forward slightly. "The Caribbean environment demands that relationship with nature. Your penthouses will require something different—an elevation above the city while still maintaining a connection to it."
Smart. She's done her research on my properties.
"And how would you achieve that?"
She doesn't hesitate. "Strategic sight lines. Materials that echo urban textures but with warmer undertones. Height variations in the furniture to mirror the cityscape. The juxtaposition creates harmony without sacrificing the clean lines minimalism requires."
I lean back, studying her. She speaks with quiet confidence about her craft. No unnecessary embellishments in her language—like her designs, her words are precise and purposeful.
"The model units need to appeal to a very specific clientele," I tell her. "People who could live anywhere in the world but choose New York. They want space that feels exclusive but not isolating."
"I understand that market," she nods. "They're not buying square footage—they're buying a feeling. Exceptional without being ostentatious."
I find myself impressed despite my initial irritation. "And you believe you can deliver that feeling?"
"I know I can." No false modesty, no overconfidence. Just certainty.
We discuss specifics—timelines, budgets, material sourcing.
Her knowledge is comprehensive, her questions incisive.
Throughout our conversation, I find myself watching her more than necessary, noting the graceful movement of her hands when she emphasizes a point, the way she subtly bites her lower lip when considering an option.
I stand reluctantly, signaling the end of our meeting. Considering how annoyed I was by her lateness, I’m surprised I’m not ready for her to leave yet. "I'll have my team draw up the contracts. We'll need preliminary concepts by the end of next week."
"I'll deliver them by Wednesday," she counters, gathering her portfolio.
"Ambitious."
"Efficient," she corrects. "I don't believe in wasting time."
"Says the woman who was late," I remind her, attempting to make a joke.
She smiles—the first genuine smile I've seen from her. It transforms her face completely, softening edges I hadn't realized were there. "I promise it won't happen again."
I extend my hand. "I'll hold you to that, Ms. Montclair."
When our hands touch this time, I'm more aware of the contact—the softness of her skin, the slight coolness of her fingers. Something electric passes between us, something neither of us acknowledges.
"Thank you for the opportunity," she says, her voice slightly lower than before.
"You can thank Alex," I reply, watching her face carefully. "He was insistent that you were the right choice."
That shadow crosses her expression again—brief but unmistakable. There's a story there, one I suddenly find myself wanting to know.
"I'll be in touch," I say instead of asking. This isn't the time or place for personal curiosity.
She nods and turns to leave. I find myself watching her go, unable to look away.
When the door closes behind her, I sit back down at my desk, more distracted than I care to admit. Camille Montclair is not what I expected. Not at all.
I'm still staring at the door when my phone rings, jolting me out of thoughts I shouldn't be having about a potential contractor.
Kate's name flashes on the screen. Perfect timing, as always—my sister has an uncanny ability to call exactly when my mind is wandering into dangerous territory.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but that would only guarantee three more calls in rapid succession. Kate doesn't take silence as an answer.
"Kate," I answer, my voice deliberately neutral.
"There he is!" Her voice is too loud. "The elusive Tristan Vale, Manhattan's most eligible workaholic. I was beginning to think I was never going to hear your voice again."
"I've been busy." I swivel my chair to face the window, looking out at the city stretched below. "Some of us have actual jobs."
"Oh, please. I bill more hours than you do, baby brother.
" I can practically see her rolling her eyes.
Kate's legal career is as demanding as my real estate work, a fact she never lets me forget.
"I just manage to have a life outside the office too.
It's called balance—a foreign concept to you, I know. "
"Did you call for a reason, or just to critique my life choices?"
"Both, obviously." She laughs, and despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth lift. Kate's laugh has always been infectious—full-bodied and genuine. "Tristan? Are you still there?"
I realize I've drifted back to thoughts of blue eyes and confident ideas about minimalist design. "I'm here."
"No, you're not. You're a million miles away." Kate's voice sharpens with interest. "What's going on? You're distracted. You're never distracted."
"Nothing's going on. I just had a meeting."
"With...?" She draws the word out, scenting blood in the water like the shark lawyer she is.
"A designer. For the penthouse project."
"A female designer?" Kate pounces immediately.
I sigh. "Yes, Kate, a female designer. It's a professional relationship."
"But you're thinking about her right now, aren't you? I can hear it in your voice."
"I'm thinking about her designs," I lie. "She's talented."
"Mmhmm. And what does she look like, this talented designer?"
"That's irrelevant."
Kate laughs again. "Oh my God, she's gorgeous. You never dodge the question unless they're gorgeous."
"Kate," I warn, but I’m not really mad. For all her meddling, Kate is the only person in the world who truly knows me. Who's allowed to tease me this way.
"Fine, fine. I'll stop." She pauses for approximately two seconds. "Actually, that's perfect timing, because I was calling about Raquel."
I close my eyes, instantly regretting picking up. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say!"
"You were going to suggest I take Raquel—whoever that is—to dinner. And the answer is no."
"Raquel Simpson," Kate says as if I didn't speak. "She's brilliant. Harvard Law, clerked for Justice Sanchez, now doing human rights work with the UN. She's funny, beautiful, and single. And yes, she wants to have dinner with you."
"I'm not interested." I turn back to my desk, shuffling papers as if Kate can see me, as if getting back to work will deter her persistence.
"You're not interested in anyone, Tristan. That's the problem. When was the last time you went on a date? And business dinners don't count."
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
Kate sighs dramatically. "This is not healthy, you know. All work and no play makes Tristan a dull, lonely, miserable—"
"I'm not miserable." The defense comes too quickly, too forcefully. "I'm focused."
"On what? Making more money you don't have time to spend? Building more buildings the city doesn’t really need?"
Her words hit closer to home than I'd like. "My work matters."
"Of course it does," she softens. "Your buildings are amazing. But there's more to life than steel and glass, Tris."
The childhood nickname catches me off guard. Kate is the only one who still uses it, the only one who remembers the gangly, quiet boy I was before I built myself into the man I am now.
"I don't have time for dating," I say, more gently. "The company—"
"Will still be there if you take one night off to have dinner with a smart, interesting woman."
I lean back in my chair, suddenly tired. "Kate, you know how these setups go. They expect charm and small talk and whatever else normal people do on dates. I'm not built for that."
"Raquel isn't looking for 'normal' either," Kate insists. "She's like you—intense, driven, too smart for most people."
"Then she deserves better than dinner with someone who's thinking about work the entire time."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Kate's exasperation explodes through the phone. "You're not some broken robot, Tristan. You're just a man who's convinced himself that connection is too difficult to be worth trying."
Her accuracy stings. "I have connections."
"With me. With maybe two people you call friends. And even Julian and Alexander only get the surface version of you most of the time."
I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose. "What do you want from me, Kate?"
"I want you to live, not just exist." Her voice softens again. "I want you to let someone see the person I know is in there. The one that used to be happy."
The simple statement hangs between us. I don't have a ready response.
"People don't understand me," I finally say, hating how vulnerable it sounds. "They find me cold or intimidating or—"
"Too intense," Kate finishes. "I know. But that's because you never let them get close enough to see past that first impression. You decide they won't understand, so you don't give them the chance."
I think of Camille Montclair, how she met my gaze without flinching. "Not everyone is worth the effort of explaining myself."
"Raquel is," Kate insists. "Just one dinner, Tris. If it's terrible, I'll never set you up again."
"You're lying."
"Fine, I'll wait at least six months before trying again." She laughs. "Come on. Friday night. That new place on 57th. I've already made the reservation."
"Of course you have." I shake my head, knowing when I'm beaten. "Fine. One dinner."
"Yes!" Kate's victory cheer is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. "You won't regret it. Raquel is perfect for you."
"Lower your expectations," I warn her. "I'm agreeing to dinner, not marriage."
"Baby steps," she says cheerfully. "Now, tell me more about this designer who has you so distracted."
"Goodbye, Kate."
"Her name, at least?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Love you too, little brother!"
I end the call, setting my phone down on my desk. Kate means well. She always does. But her vision of what my life should be—balanced, social, normal—feels like a suit tailored for someone else. I've tried to wear it, but it never fits quite right.
My thoughts drift back to Camille Montclair, to that flash of something in her eyes when I mentioned Alex. I shouldn't care about their history. It's irrelevant to the project, to our working relationship.
Yet I find myself wondering.
I turn to my computer, telling myself I'm checking her references, verifying her portfolio. Professional due diligence. Nothing more.
But even as I type her name into the search bar, I know I'm lying to myself. And that realization is more unsettling than any lecture from Kate could ever be.