Chapter 14
Camille
Isquint at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark circles frame my eyes, and my skin has a sickly pallor that even my most expensive makeup can't hide. Something's off. I woke up feeling like hell—exhausted and emotional—like I'm coming down with something.
"Girlfriend!" Izzy's voice filters through the bathroom door. "If you don't come out in the next thirty seconds, I'm eating all the croissants I brought."
"Coming," I call back, dabbing one last layer of concealer under my eyes before giving up. It's not helping anyway.
When I emerge, Izzy is sprawled across my couch, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other digs through a paper bag of pastries. She looks up, and her expression shifts from playful to concerned in an instant.
"Jesus, Cami. You look like shit."
"Thanks," I mutter, dropping into the armchair across from her. "Just what every girl wants to hear."
She sits up, setting her phone aside. "I'm serious. You're, like, green. And not in a cool, eco-friendly kind of way."
I reach for a croissant but the smell—normally enticing—makes my stomach churn slightly. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Bullshit." Izzy leans forward, her eyes narrowing. "You've been 'just tired' for a week now. Ever since Antigua. Ever since Alexander fucking Kingsley."
The mention of his name brings an unwelcome pang in my chest. "This has nothing to do with him."
"Mmhmm." She's using her skeptical voice now. "So you're not exhausted from crying yourself to sleep? Or from obsessively checking your phone to see if he's texted?"
"I don't do that," I lie, avoiding her eyes.
"Your undereye circles tell a different story." Izzy leans back, crossing her arms. "Look, I think you should reschedule this meeting today. You're clearly not well."
I shake my head immediately. "No way. This meeting with Julian Fairfax could be huge for Evoque. I can't reschedule."
"The guy's a retired soccer player turned philanthropist. Pretty sure he can wait 24 hours while you recover from whatever this is." She gestures vaguely at my entire body.
"He's not just a 'retired soccer player,'" I protest, standing to gather my portfolio. "He's building a state-of-the-art community center in Brooklyn. It's exactly the kind of meaningful project I want to be part of."
Izzy follows me into the bedroom, watching as I pull dresses from my closet. "And it has nothing to do with the fact that he's Alexander's friend? You're not secretly hoping to run into that emotionally constipated asshole again, are you?"
Her question hits too close to home. I pause, a red sheath dress clutched in my hands. "That's not fair."
Her voice softens. "You've never been the type to chase after someone who doesn't want you back. Why is this different? I mean, I know he took your v-card but…"
"I'm not chasing him," I insist, though the words sound hollow even to me. "This is business. Alexander may be a bastard, but he offered me a huge opportunity. I can't lose that momentum. Not now."
Izzy plucks the dress from my hands and replaces it with a sky-blue one. "This color will help with that whole 'might vomit any second' look you've got going."
I manage a weak smile. "Thanks."
"Just promise me you'll leave if you start feeling worse?" She holds my gaze until I nod reluctantly.
"I promise."
An hour later, I'm stepping out of a taxi in front of a sleek building in downtown Brooklyn. My portfolio feels unusually heavy, and the late April humidity isn't helping my nausea. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and walk into the building with as much confidence as I can muster.
The receptionist directs me to a large conference room. When I push open the door, I'm greeted by sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the smell of fresh coffee. And standing by those windows, silhouetted against the morning light, is Julian Fairfax.
He turns at the sound of the door, and I understand immediately why he has such a following. He moves with an easy grace that makes even the simple act of crossing a room seem sexy. Unlike Tristan's cool detachment or Alexander's intimidating intensity, Julian radiates warmth.
"Camille," he says, his voice carrying a hint of a British accent left over from living in England. He extends his hand with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Brilliant to finally meet you."
His hand engulfs mine, warm and calloused. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Fairfax."
"Julian, please." His grin widens. "Mr. Fairfax makes me sound like my father, and trust me, no one wants that."
There's something disarming about him that puts me instantly at ease. Maybe it's the lack of pretension, or maybe it's just that he seems genuinely pleased to see me.
"Coffee?" he offers, gesturing to a carafe on the conference table.
The thought makes my stomach flip uncomfortably. "Just water, please."
He studies me for a moment, and I worry he's noticing my pallor. But he just nods and pours me a glass from a pitcher. "Alex said you were talented, but he failed to mention you’re also stunning."
The compliment catches me off guard, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks—a welcome change from the clammy coolness I've been feeling all morning. Then I feel my heart rate pick up at the thought of Alex. "That was very kind of him."
Julian laughs, a warm, rich sound. “His exact words were 'exceptionally talented' and 'perfect for the project.' But the stunning part—that's all mine."
He's flirting. Openly, unabashedly flirting.
And despite everything—my lingering heartache over Alex, my physical discomfort, my professional concerns—I find myself responding to it.
There's something magnetic about Julian's presence, something that makes me want to lean closer, to see if his easy charm extends beyond surface-level interactions.
"Let me tell you about the community center," he says, spreading architectural plans across the table.
As he leans forward, I catch his scent—clean, with hints of sandalwood.
"This isn't just any building to me. These kids deserve something special, something that feels like it was built just for them. "
The passion in his voice is obvious. This isn't a vanity project or a tax write-off; he genuinely cares about the impact of this space.
As he describes his vision, his hands move expressively, occasionally brushing against mine as he points to different areas of the blueprints.
Each accidental touch sends little electrical currents through me.
"So," Julian says, eyes sparkling with something that might be mischief, "think you can handle it? Fair warning—I’ve been told I can be quite demanding."
The way he says "demanding" makes my pulse quicken. "I've worked with demanding clients before."
"Ah, but were they as charming as me?" He winks, and it should be cheesy, but somehow it's not.
Despite my exhaustion, despite the churning in my stomach, despite everything that's happened in the past week, I find myself smiling back at him. "That remains to be seen, Mr. Fairfax."
"Julian," he corrects again, his eyes never leaving mine. "We're going to be working closely together, Camille. No need for formalities."
The way he says my name—soft emphasis on the second syllable—sends a shiver down my spine. This is dangerous territory. The last thing I need is another complication, especially one connected to Alexander Kingsley.
Julian walks toward the window as he talks about the community center's location, sunlight catching on his profile.
I try to focus on the blueprints in front of me, but my eyes keep drifting to him.
There's an ease to the way he moves—confident but without Alex's razor-sharp edges or Tristan's careful restraint.
"The neighborhood kids already use this corner lot for pickup games," Julian explains. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing forearms decorated with intricate tattoos. "But they deserve better than cracked concrete and rusty hoops."
I nod, forcing my attention back to the plans. "Have you considered creating separate zones for different age groups? Younger kids might feel intimidated in spaces dominated by the older teenagers."
Julian turns to me, eyes brightening. "That's exactly the kind of thinking we need. Most designers focus on the structure—you're focusing on the experience."
The praise warms me, but it's immediately followed by a cold whisper of doubt. Not that long ago, I was in Alexander's bed, believing I was special. And now I'm sitting here, responding to another man's smile like a flower turning toward the sun.
What does that say about me?
"You alright?" Julian asks, his head tilting slightly. "You went somewhere else for a moment."
I blink, pulling myself back to the present. "Just thinking about flow patterns between spaces."
It's a lie. But I can't exactly tell him I'm wondering if I'm the kind of woman who bounces from one man to another without pause. Or worse—if I'm the kind of woman Alexander Kingsley "shares" with his friends.
Is that why Alexander referred me? As some kind of... hookup for his friends? The thought lands hard. Did he tell Julian about our time together? Were they laughing about it? About me—the naive woman who fell for his certain brand of seduction?
I study Julian's face, looking for signs of expectation. But all I see is open interest in what I have to say.
"Tell me about your vision for the main gathering space," I say. "What feeling are you hoping to create?"
Julian's face lights up as he describes wanting a space that feels both energizing and safe—somewhere kids can be loud and themselves but also feel protected from the harsher realities waiting outside. As he talks, I watch his hands—strong and expressive.
"Sorry," he says suddenly, catching himself mid-explanation. "I'm rabbiting on. Bit of a passion project, this one."
"Don't apologize," I tell him, surprised by the warmth in my own voice. "Passion is good. It gives me more to work with."