Chapter 13
Julian
Isit with my scotch at the corner of the bar, watching New York's elite mingle beneath string lights and starless city sky.
The Apex—members only, naturally—sits thirty-five floors above Madison Avenue, providing the perfect perch for Manhattan's finest peacocks to strut.
Alex is late. Tristan, chronically early for everything else in life, is apparently making an exception tonight.
The bartender slides by, raising his eyebrows in silent question.
I shake my head. I'm nursing this drink until reinforcements arrive.
Last time I showed up early to meet Alex and Tristan, I ended up three sheets to the wind before they arrived, then humiliated myself trying to explain an offside trap to a Victoria's Secret model. Not my finest hour.
It’s been ten years since I walked away from professional football, aka soccer in the States, and still people recognize me.
Not everyone—thank Christ—but enough. Enough that I can't completely disappear into anonymity the way I sometimes crave.
England still remembers Julian Fairfax, the "golden boy" midfielder who helped bring home Premier League glory before a knee injury cut everything short at twenty-nine.
America remembers less, which is precisely why I moved back here.
Now I build community centers and youth sports facilities instead of scoring goals.
Less glamorous, infinitely more satisfying.
Though I miss the pitch sometimes—the smell of grass, the roar when the ball hits the back of the net—I don't miss the spotlight.
Don't miss nights like these, surrounded by people who want a piece of something I no longer am.
"Oh my God, you're Julian Fairfax."
Her voice hits me before I see her—husky with that particular brand of affected disinterest that takes years of practice to perfect. I turn, pasting on what Tristan calls my "public smile"—just enough warmth to be polite, not enough to encourage.
She's stunning in that Manhattan money way—sleek dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, a black dress I’m sure she paid way too much money for. Perfect teeth flash as she extends a manicured hand.
"I'm Chelsea. I absolutely had to come say hello. I watched you destroy Manchester United in the FA Cup final. Twice." She laughs, the sound practiced to the point of artifice. "My ex was obsessed with you."
I shake her hand, keeping my grip loose, my smile fixed. "Nice to meet you, Chelsea. Always good to run into a football fan."
"Soccer," she corrects with a wink, as if we're sharing a private joke. "When in Rome, right?"
"Right." I take another sip of my scotch and look around, hoping she'll take the hint.
She doesn't. Instead, she slides onto the empty barstool beside me, crossing legs that seem to go on forever. "So what brings a European football legend to The Apex on a Tuesday night? Slumming with us ordinary people?"
I chuckle because it's expected, though the joke falls flat. "Just meeting some friends."
"Anyone I know?" She leans forward, suddenly very interested. Of course. This is how it always goes. First, they recognize the athlete. Then they wonder who else in my orbit might be worth knowing.
"Just some old mates." I glance pointedly at my watch.
"Well, they're clearly running late, so their loss is my gain." She signals the bartender. "I'll have what he's having."
Christ. I've dated women like Chelsea before—gorgeous, wealthy, social climbers.
In my twenties, I collected them like trophies.
The footballer and the model. The athlete and the actress.
Relationships built on mutual superficiality, both of us too busy admiring our reflection in the other to notice there was nothing beneath.
I'm thirty-nine now. Retired. Rebuilding. Not interested in being anyone's status symbol or story to tell at brunch.
"So," Chelsea continues, oblivious to my internal monologue, "have you tried Lucien?
It just opened in SoHo. Impossible to get a table unless you know someone.
" She says this with the particular smugness of someone who clearly does know someone.
"The chef trained under Alain Ducasse. The ceviche is phenomenal. "
"Haven't had the pleasure," I reply, scanning the room for any sign of Alex or Tristan. Nothing. Shit.
"We should go sometime. I could make a call." Her knee brushes mine—not accidentally.
I shift slightly away. "That's very kind, but my schedule's a bit packed at the moment."
"With what? Are you commentating now? Most athletes go that route, don't they?" She sips her newly arrived scotch, grimacing slightly. It’s obvious she ordered it only to create connection, not because she actually enjoys it.
"No, I run a foundation. We build athletic facilities for underserved communities." I feel a flash of genuine pride saying this—the work matters in a way scoring goals never did.
"Oh! Charity work. That's so... noble." The pause tells me everything. She's already mentally filing me under "no longer relevant."
I should be relieved. Instead, some perverse part of me feels compelled to clarify. "It's not charity. It's community investment. We're creating spaces where kids can be safe and mentored."
Her eyes glaze slightly. "That's really wonderful. Speaking of wonderful spaces, were you at the Met Gala last week? Absolute disaster. Caroline Herron wore this atrocious Givenchy that made her look like a deranged peacock."
And we're back to the shallow end of the pool.
I nod and make appropriate noises while she dissects New York's social scene with surgical precision.
Chelsea is attractive—objectively, undeniably so—but watching her talk about who snubbed whom at what party makes her beauty seem like packaging: shiny, expertly crafted, and ultimately disposable.
"—and then of course there's the Winterson’s' benefit next month. You simply must come as my plus-one. Everyone who's anyone will be there."
I blink, realizing she's now actively planning our social calendar. "I appreciate the offer, but I really can't commit to anything right now."
"Playing hard to get?" She smiles, touching my forearm. "I like that."
Jesus. I'm not playing anything. I'm trying to escape.
"Actually, if you'll excuse me for a moment—" I stand, collecting my phone from the bar.
"I'll be right here," she says with a conspirator's wink.
I nod and thread my way through the crowd toward the restrooms at the back of the rooftop. My phone buzzes in my hand—a text from Tristan.
Just arrived. Where are you?
Thank god. I type back: Men's room. Save me when I come out. Socialite situation.
His response is immediate: Why does this shit always happen to you?
I push through the door to the bathroom, exhaling with relief in the momentary quiet.
The marble-clad space is empty, thank God.
I lean against the sink, studying my reflection in the mirror.
Same face that used to be plastered across magazine covers and the internet.
Slightly more lines around the eyes now. Much less patience for bullshit.
I splash water on my face, steeling myself to walk back out there. With Tristan arrived, I can finally escape Chelsea's clutches without seeming completely rude. Though part of me thinks rudeness might be warranted at this point.
I push through the bathroom door and scan the rooftop. Tristan has secured a corner table away from the main crowd. More importantly, there's no sign of Chelsea lurking nearby. I make my way over, zigzagging through clusters of people who laugh too loudly at jokes that aren't funny.
"Took you long enough," Tristan says as I slide into the chair across from him. "I thought I might need to stage a rescue mission."
"You have no idea," I sigh, settling in. "She spent fifteen minutes telling me about some restaurant where the chef massages each kale leaf individually before serving it."
"Sounds erotic," Tristan deadpans, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. It's as close to humor as he generally gets.
"No sign of Alex yet?" he asks.
I check my phone. "He just texted he's running late. Shocking."
A server materializes at our table, and I order another scotch. When she's gone, Tristan leans forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"I met with that designer Alex recommended. Camille Montclair."
I raise my eyebrows. "And? What's your verdict?"
"She's talented. Sharp. Her design sense is exactly what the penthouse project needs." He pauses, turning his glass slowly. "But there's something else."
"Something else like what?"
"When I mentioned Alex's name, she had... a reaction." Tristan chooses his words carefully, as he always does. "Almost imperceptible, but it was there."
"What kind of reaction?" I'm intrigued now. Alex rarely recommends anyone, for anything. It’s just not the way he does things.
Tristan's blue eyes narrow slightly. "Pain, maybe. Or anger. It was gone so quickly I can't be sure. But I’m fairly certain something happened between them in Antigua."
"She's attractive, then?" I ask, already knowing the answer. Alex doesn't mix business with pleasure unless the pleasure is exceptional.
"Very." Tristan's tone is neutral, but I've known him long enough to hear what he's not saying.
I lean back in my chair, studying him. "You like her..."
"I'm considering hiring her," he corrects, not meeting my eyes. "For a work project."
"Right," I say, unconvinced. "Well, I'm meeting her next week about the community center. I'll see if I pick up the same... reaction... when I mention Alex."
Tristan nods. "She's good, Julian. Perfect for your project, actually. She immediately grasped the need for functionality without sacrificing aesthetics."
"Sounds promising. The center needs someone who understands we're building for kids who've never had a space that's truly theirs.
It needs to be durable, but not institutional.
" I'm genuinely excited about this project—an athletic and educational facility in one of Brooklyn's most underserved neighborhoods.
"I want them to walk in and feel like someone finally built something beautiful just for them. "
"She'll understand that." Something in Tristan's voice makes me look up sharply. He's staring into his drink, expression unreadable.
Before I can press further, a familiar voice cuts through the ambient chatter.
"Starting without me? Poor form, gentlemen."
Alex Kingsley stands at our table, immaculate in a charcoal suit despite the late hour, his expression a careful mask of nonchalance. But something's off. There's a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that betrays his casual tone.
"You're late," Tristan says simply, gesturing to an empty chair.
Alex drops into the seat, immediately signaling for a server. "Board meeting ran long. You know how it is."
"Not really," I say. "My board meetings involve explaining to neighborhood kids why we can't have a swimming pool on the roof. Slightly different stakes."
The server arrives, and Alex orders a double scotch, neat. When she leaves, he loosens his tie slightly.
"So," he says, "how's the Brooklyn project coming along?"
"Breaking ground next month," I reply, watching him carefully. "Actually, I'm meeting with that designer you recommended. Camille Montclair."
The change is subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders stiffen slightly, his jaw tightens. "Good. She's talented."
"So I've heard," I say, exchanging a quick glance with Tristan. "Tristan met with her earlier today."
"Did you?" Alex turns to Tristan, his tone deliberately casual. "And?"
"I'm considering hiring her for the Park Avenue project." Tristan watches Alex over the rim of his glass. "You were right about her eye for minimalist spaces."
"I’m always right." Alex accepts his drink from the returning server, taking a substantial swallow. "About business matters, anyway."
There's a story here, begging to be uncovered. I've known Alex for seven years—long enough to recognize when he's deflecting. "How was Antigua, anyway?"
"Hot. Beautiful. Profitable." He shrugs. "Everything a Caribbean luxury property should be."
"And Camille's work there? Satisfactory?" Tristan presses.
Something dangerous flashes in Alex's eyes. "Her designs exceeded expectations. Why all the questions about Camille?"
I lean forward, abandoning subtlety. "Because you're acting weird as hell, mate. You recommend this designer to both of us with glowing praise, but you flinch every time we say her name."
"I don't flinch," he snaps, then immediately composes himself. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."
"Right," I drawl, unconvinced. "Nothing to do with whatever happened between you two in paradise?"
Alex's glare could freeze hellfire. "Nothing happened. She's a talented designer who understood the vision for the resort. End of story."
The denial is too vehement, too rehearsed. Tristan and I exchange another look.
"Is that why you practically fled the island without saying goodbye?" Tristan asks, voice mild but eyes sharp. "Very professional."
Alex's knuckles whiten around his glass. "How did you—"
"Your assistant mentioned it to my assistant," Tristan says. "Apparently there was some last-minute scramble to prep the jet."
"I had urgent business in New York," Alex says flatly.
"So urgent you left a note instead of speaking to her directly?" I can't help pushing now, fascinated by this crack in Alex's usually impenetrable armor.
He drains his glass and stands abruptly. "I didn't realize my travel arrangements required your approval. I have a meeting to get to."
"At eight?" I raise my eyebrows. "With whom?"
"Investors. Tokyo market." He's already signaling for the check.
I watch him sign the bill without looking at the total. "You just got here, Alex. Have one more drink."
"Can't. We'll do it again soon." He straightens his already-perfect tie. "Let me know how it goes with Camille, Julian. I'm sure she'll do excellent work for both of you."
Without waiting for a response, he strides toward the elevator, cutting through the crowd with the frictionless efficiency of someone who expects—and receives—a clear path through the world.
When he's gone, Tristan and I sit in silence for a moment.
"Well, that was subtle," I finally say. "Think we touched a nerve?"
Tristan swirls the remaining bourbon in his glass. "I think we found the source of that look in Camille's eyes when I mentioned his name."
"What the hell happened in Antigua?" I wonder aloud.
"Exactly what you’re thinking," Tristan says quietly.
I let that sink in. Alex Kingsley—confident, controlled and calculated—doesn't run from anything. Except, apparently, a petite blonde interior designer.