Chapter 16
Julian
The project specs document on my monitor blurs into meaningless words as my mind wanders back to Camille's face during the meeting this morning.
That pale complexion, the slight tremor in her hand as she reached for the water glass, the way she paused mid-sentence as if fighting some internal battle.
I've seen enough to know something's wrong, even if Tristan seemed oblivious. I push away from my desk, abandoning any pretense of productivity.
My assistant pokes her head in, clipboard in hand. "The contractor called about the foundation pour. They want to move it to next Tuesday."
"Fine. Whatever works." I wave my hand dismissively.
She lingers in the doorway, eyebrows raised. "You okay? You've been distracted all afternoon."
"Just thinking about the project," I lie, stopping at the window to stare at Brooklyn's skyline.
"Sure." Her tone makes it clear she doesn't believe me. "I'll tell them Tuesday is approved."
When the door closes, I press my hands over my eyes.
This isn't like me. I don't obsess over business associates, don't let personal concerns interfere with work.
At least, that's what I tell myself. But the truth slips through anyway—I'm worried about Camille.
Worried in a way that crosses several boundaries I shouldn't be crossing.
She looked terrible today. Not unattractive—I'm not sure Camille could achieve that if she tried—but unwell.
Worse than during our first meeting when she'd been sick.
The shadows under her eyes were deeper, her skin almost translucent.
And there was something else, something in her expression that spoke of more than physical discomfort. Fear, maybe. Or uncertainty.
I drop back into my chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. This isn't just about her health affecting the project. I've worked with people fighting colds, nursing hangovers, pushing through personal crises. That's just part of business. This feels different. I feel different about it.
"Shit," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Here we go again."
It's a pattern I know too well. My ex-wife called it my "hero complex"—this tendency to fall hard and fast for women who seem to need saving.
During my playing days, I was notorious for it.
The supermodel going through a messy divorce.
The actress struggling with fame. The photographer battling her demons.
I'd swoop in, all charm and concern, convinced this time was different. This time was real.
It never was.
"She's not some damsel in distress," I tell myself out loud. "She's a woman dealing with something personal that's none of your business."
But even as I say it, I remember how small she looked in that massive conference room, how she seemed to fold into herself when she thought no one was watching.
And I remember that moment in the elevator when our eyes met, when something unspoken passed between us that felt like recognition.
Not of each other, necessarily, but of something shared. Something understood.
My phone buzzes with a text from Tristan.
Did Camille seem off to you today?
So he noticed too. I tap out a reply.
Definitely. She was ill at our first meeting as well.
His response comes quickly.
Alex was acting weird last night when we mentioned her name.
I stare at the screen, pieces connecting in my mind. Alex and Camille in Antigua. His hasty departure. Her illness. Her distress when his name comes up.
Could they be connected? And if so, how?
The speculation feels intrusive, but I can't stop my mind from spinning possibilities. Did something happen between them beyond a professional relationship? Did he hurt her somehow?
"Not your business," I remind myself firmly, setting the phone aside. But the concern remains, settling in my chest like a very heavy weight.
I stand again, decision made before I fully realize it.
I'll go check on her. Just as a friend. Just to make sure she's okay.
I can offer to grab some takeout, or suggest we grab a bite somewhere if she's feeling up to it.
Nothing presumptuous, nothing that crosses a line.
Just one human being concerned about another.
"Right. Because that's all this is," I mutter sarcastically to my reflection in the window.
My assistant looks up in surprise when I grab my jacket. "Heading out early?"
"Got an errand to run," I say, not quite meeting her eyes. She's worked for me long enough to recognize my evasions, but professional enough not to call me on them. "Text me if anything urgent comes up."
Outside, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows between buildings. I flag down a taxi, giving the driver Camille's address before I can talk myself out of this impulsive decision. I remember it from when I dropped her home after our first meeting.
The taxi weaves through Manhattan traffic while I rehearse what to say. ‘Just in the neighborhood’ sounds fake. ‘Wanted to follow up on the project’ sounds too professional. ‘Was worried about you’ sounds too personal.
Maybe I should have called first. This is presumptuous, showing up unannounced. Intrusive, even. She might not be home. Or worse, she might be home but not alone. The thought sends an uncomfortable pang through me that I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.
But as the taxi approaches her building, I silence the doubting voice in my head. Something is wrong with Camille Montclair. I sensed it this morning, and my instincts about people are rarely wrong. Professional boundaries be damned—I need to know she's okay.
And if she tells me to piss off, well, I've faced worse rejections in my life.
I pay the driver and step onto the sidewalk, looking up at her building. It's a nice pre-war structure, elegant without being ostentatious. The doorman gives me a once-over as I approach.
"I'm here to see Camille Montclair," I say, summoning the confidence that once carried me onto pitches before thousands of screaming fans.
He nods. "I'll ring her apartment."
As he picks up the phone, I take a deep breath. This could be a mistake. But I just can’t help myself.
The hallway outside Camille's apartment is quiet. I knock on the door and wait, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I’m suddenly aware of how strange this must seem—turning up unannounced at her home like some lovesick teenager.
Just as I'm considering leaving, the door opens. Camille stands there in gray sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot. "Julian? What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood," I say, immediately regretting the transparent lie.
Her raised eyebrow tells me she's not buying it either.
"Actually, that's not true. I was worried about you after the meeting.
You seemed..." I trail off, taking in her pale complexion, the slight puffiness around her eyes that suggests recent tears. "Not well."
"I'm fine," she says automatically, one hand unconsciously moving to her stomach before dropping back to her side. "Just a bit under the weather still."
"May I come in?" I ask, gentling my voice. "Just for a minute."
She hesitates, glancing back into her apartment as if checking for something—or someone—before stepping aside. "Sure. Sorry about the mess."
There is no mess. Her apartment is pristine, with clean lines and thoughtful touches that reflect her designer's eye. Everything in its place, except for a rumpled throw blanket on the couch and a half-empty mug on the coffee table.
"I brought these," I say, holding up a paper bag from the bakery down the street from my office. "Ginger snaps. My mom always said they help settle an upset stomach."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps, at the thoughtfulness, or the personal detail about my mother. "That's really kind of you." She takes the bag but doesn't open it. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea?"
"I'm fine." I remain standing, suddenly uncertain. This felt less intrusive in my head. "I don't mean to barge in. I just... at the meeting today, when you seemed to be struggling a bit, it reminded me of our first meeting. When you were sick."
Her cheeks color slightly at the memory. "Not my finest moment."
"We all have our moments," I say with a small smile.
She gestures to the couch. "Do you want to sit?"
We settle on opposite ends of the sofa, a careful distance between us. In this light, I can more easily see the strain in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. Whatever is going on, it's not good.
"Camille," I start, abandoning pretense. "I know we barely know each other, and I have no right to pry into your personal life. But I can see something's wrong. If there's anything I can do—"
"There's nothing," she cuts in, her voice tight. "But thank you. Really."
I should leave it alone. I should respect her boundaries, thank her for her time, and go. That's what a normal person would do. But I've never been very good at walking away from someone in pain.
"Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn't directly involved," I offer. "No judgment, no advice unless you want it. Just... a friendly ear."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, as if assessing my sincerity. Something in her seems to crack, just slightly. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question catches me off guard with its raw honesty. "Because you seem like you could use some kindness right now."
Her eyes fill suddenly with tears. She blinks rapidly, trying to contain them, but one escapes, trailing down her cheek. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb. The touch is brief, barely there, but I feel her tremble.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, more tears following the first.
"Don't apologize." I hand her a tissue from the box on her coffee table. "Whatever it is, it's obviously significant."
She takes a shaky breath, twisting the tissue between her fingers. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "I'm pregnant."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. My mind immediately jumps to Alex, to Antigua, to the way she reacts when his name comes up. I try to keep my expression neutral, though my heart is suddenly pounding.
"That's..." I pause, unsure what to say. "Unexpected?"
A small, broken laugh escapes her. "You could say that."
I don't ask if it's Alex's. I don't need to.
The timing, her reaction, the way she looked when Tristan mentioned his name—it all fits.
I feel a complicated mix of emotions: concern for her, anger at Alex for what I assume was his callous handling of their relationship, and something else I'm not ready to examine.
"Have you told—" I stop myself. "Have you told anyone else?"
"Just my friend Izzy," she says, wiping at her eyes. "I haven't figured out what I'm going to do yet."
I nod, understanding the weight of the decision she's facing. "Whatever you decide, you don't have to go through it alone."
She looks at me with surprise, as if the concept of support is foreign to her. It makes me wonder about her family, her friends, the people who should be rallying around her right now.
"You must be hungry," I say, changing the subject to give her a moment to compose herself. "There's a little place not far from here that makes the best chicken noodle soup I've ever had. Would you let me go get some for you?"
She manages a small smile. "That's really sweet, but I can't stomach chicken right now. Morning sickness is a bit of a misnomer—it's more like all-day sickness."
"Just the noodles, then," I say firmly, standing. "Broth and noodles. Comfort food without the bits that make you queasy."
She nods, seeming too exhausted to argue. "That actually sounds really good."
"I'll be back in thirty minutes," I promise, already heading for the door. "Do you need anything else while I'm out?"
"I'm okay," she says, but the way she huddles under her thin throw blanket suggests otherwise.
The spring air hits me as I step outside, cool and bracing. I flag down a taxi and give the driver the name of the soup place, mind racing with everything Camille has just shared. Pregnant. With what I assume is Alex's child. Holy shit…
I wait while they prepare the soup, specifically requesting they leave out the chicken and go heavy on the noodles. The girl behind the counter looks confused but doesn't question me.
On the way back, I pass a boutique with a window display that catches my eye.
Without overthinking it I ask the driver to stop and I duck inside.
Ten minutes later, I emerge with a shopping bag containing a buttery-soft cashmere blanket in a pale blue that reminds me of Camille's eyes, a plush robe that the saleswoman assures me is "like being hugged by a cloud," and a box of French herbal teas.
It's extravagant. Possibly overstepping. Definitely not how I'd normally behave with a business associate. But something about Camille's vulnerability, her obvious loneliness in the face of such enormous news, makes me want to wrap her in comfort any way I can.
When I return to her apartment, balancing the soup container and my purchases, she answers the door with surprise that quickly shifts to something like wonder.
"What’s all this?" she asks as I set everything on her kitchen counter.
"Soup, as promised," I say, unpacking the container. "And just a few things I thought might help you feel better."
Her eyes widen as I pull out the blanket, the robe, the teas. "Julian, this is too much. You didn't need to—"
"I wanted to," I interrupt gently. "Consider it a care package from a friend."
"A friend," she repeats softly, running her fingers over the cashmere blanket. "We barely know each other."
"Well, I know you're talented, brave, and currently growing a human being while trying to manage two major design projects," I say, finding bowls in her cabinet and ladling out the soup. "That seems like enough to start with."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "When you put it that way."
We sit at her small dining table with steaming bowls of soup between us.
"Thank you," she says after a few bites. "Not just for the soup and the gifts. For not judging. For not asking a million questions."
I meet her gaze across the table. "I'm here if you want to talk about any of it. And equally here if you don't."
Something passes between us in that moment—an understanding, a connection that feels significant. As we eat in comfortable silence, I realize that whatever brought me to her door isn’t going to fade away.