Chapter 17
Alexander
Ipress my fingers against my temples, trying to physically push thoughts of Camille from my mind.
It's been weeks since Antigua. Weeks since I left that note.
Weeks of telling myself I did the right thing by cutting her off cleanly rather than letting her believe there could be something more between us.
The right thing. For her. For me. For everyone.
Then why the fuck can't I concentrate on anything else?
My phone vibrates against my desk—a text from Vince about the zoning approval for the Chicago project. Not her. It's never her anymore. She stopped texting after she thanked me for recommending her to Tristan and Julian. I pull her text up and read it again.
Thank you for recommending me to Tristan Vale and Julian Fairfax. I appreciate it.
Professional. Polite. Distant. Exactly what I wanted, right? I remember staring at those words, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, wanting to type... what? That I was sorry? That I missed her? That sometimes I wake up reaching for her?
I never replied. Responding would have been cruel—giving her hope for something I can't offer. Better to let her think I'm an asshole (because I am). Better to let her move on.
So why does the thought of her moving on make me want to put my fist through a wall?
I swivel my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office. Fifty-two floors above Manhattan, and I still can't get enough distance from these feelings. I have an empire to run. Quarterly reports to review. Board members to placate. I don't have time for this... whatever this is.
My intercom buzzes. "Mr. Kingsley? Mr. Vale is here to see you."
Perfect. Just what I need.
"Send him in," I tell my assistant, straightening my tie and schooling my features into something approaching professional detachment.
Tristan enters with his usual measured stride, expression unreadable as always. But there's something in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly where my mind has been.
"Alex," he says, taking the seat across from my desk without waiting for an invitation. "You look like you’ve got something heavy on your mind."
"Always do," I respond dryly. "Did you need something, or did you just come by to critique my mental health?"
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Thought you might want to grab lunch."
It's a peace offering. After our tense exchange at The Apex, we've been circling each other carefully. Tristan, unlike Julian, knows when to back off. Usually.
"Sure," I say, closing my laptop. "Quattro?"
He nods, and we make our way to the elevator in silence. It's only once we're seated at my usual table, food ordered, that he brings up the subject I've been dreading.
"I hired Camille Montclair for the Park Avenue project," he says, watching me over the rim of his water glass. "She's exceptional."
I force myself to meet his gaze steadily. "I told you she would be."
He sets down his glass. "She presented her preliminary designs yesterday. Julian and I met with her together."
My jaw tightens involuntarily. The thought of both of them with her, admiring her work, watching her explain her vision with that quiet confidence that drew me to her in the first place—it burns in my chest like acid.
"Efficient," I manage. "Killing two birds with one stone."
Tristan's eyes narrow slightly. "She didn't look well though."
"What do you mean?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"Pale. Distracted." His gaze is too perceptive, too knowing. "Julian seemed particularly concerned."
Of course he did. Julian and his fucking hero complex—always ready to swoop in and rescue a damsel in distress. The thought of him comforting Camille, touching her, looking at her with those soulful eyes that have melted panties across continents—it makes me want to hit something.
"I'm sure she's fine," I say, more sharply than intended.
"Are you?" Tristan leans forward slightly. "Sure she's fine? Or sure you don't care?"
"What happened between Camille and me was a business arrangement that included some ‘extracurriculars.’ It's over though. End of story."
"If that's true," Tristan says carefully, "then you won't mind that Julian seems totally into her."
My hand tightens around my glass of water. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." He holds my gaze steadily. "He mentioned stopping by her place yesterday evening. Something about soup."
Soup. Julian brought Camille soup. The domesticity of it makes my stomach clench. That should be me. But it can't be me.
"He's welcome to her," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "If she's naive enough to fall for his bullshit, that's her problem."
Tristan just looks at me, his silence more damning than any words could be.
Our food arrives, saving me from having to defend myself further. I stab at my salad, appetite gone. The conversation shifts to safer ground—business, investments, the Park Avenue project. But underneath it all, I feel Tristan's judgment.
Back in my office, I can't shake the image of Julian at Camille's door, soup in hand, his grand gesture working its magic on her. Would she fall for it? Would she let him touch her the way I did? Kiss her? Fuck her?
The pen in my hand snaps, ink spilling across important documents. "Shit!" These fucking cheap pens. Where the hell is my Mont Blanc?
My assistant rushes in at my outburst, eyes widening at the mess. "I'll get something to clean that up, sir."
"Just—" I take a breath, forcing my voice to level out. "Just leave it. I'll handle it."
She hesitates, clearly concerned by my uncharacteristic behavior. "Is everything alright, Mr. Kingsley?"
"Fine," I snap, then immediately regret it. She doesn't deserve my temper. None of my staff do, but they've all been walking on eggshells around me for weeks. "I'm fine. Thank you."
When she leaves, I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted.
I haven't been sleeping well. Can't stop my mind from replaying moments with Camille—her smile when I surprised her with the sunset cruise, her body wrapped around mine in the hot tub, the soft vulnerability in her eyes the last morning I saw her.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to her name in my contacts. One call. That's all it would take to hear her voice again. To see if there's still something there, something worth exploring despite all my reservations.
But what would I say? Sorry I abandoned you without a proper goodbye? Sorry I've been ignoring your messages? Sorry I can't be the man you deserve?
She deserves someone else. Not me.
But as I turn back to my work, the thought of Julian or Tristan being that someone burns like a brand against my skin.
She's underneath me, blonde hair fanned out across white sheets, blue eyes half-lidded with pleasure.
"Alex," she gasps as I thrust into her, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders.
The Caribbean breeze drifts through open windows, cooling our sweat-slicked skin.
She feels impossibly tight, impossibly perfect around me. I'm close, so close...
I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs. For a moment, I'm disoriented, still half-trapped in the dream. My body thinks she's here with me, and I’m rock hard and aching.
"Fuck," I mutter, throwing an arm over my eyes.
Even in sleep, I can't escape her. It's been like this for weeks—fragments of Camille haunting my dreams. Sometimes we're back in my office, her bent over my desk, skirt pushed up around her hips.
Sometimes we're in the hot tub, and she’s straddling me.
Sometimes it's just her face, her smile, her eyes looking at me like I'm everything she wants instead of the cold bastard who left her.
I glance at the clock: 4:37 AM. Too early to get up, too late to hope for any decent sleep. My cock throbs, demanding attention, the images from my dream still vivid and electric. I groan, kicking off the sheets. The cool air of my bedroom raises goosebumps on my overheated skin.
My phone sits on the nightstand, its dark screen like a challenge. I reach for it before I'm fully conscious of the decision, unlocking it with face recognition. I pull up her name in my contacts and my thumb hovers over her number.
What would I even say? I'm hard and thinking about you? I made a mistake? I miss you? I can't stop dreaming about fucking you?
Jesus Christ, Kingsley… get it together.
I drop the phone back onto the nightstand. This isn't me. I don't pine. I don't obsess. I make decisions and I stick to them, consequences be damned. It's how I live my life. It's how I survive.
But I can't deny the physical reality of my need for her. My cock lies heavy against my stomach, pre-cum beading at the tip. Maybe if I just take care of this, I can clear my head of her, at least temporarily.
I wrap my hand around my shaft, closing my eyes as I begin to stroke.
Immediately, she fills my mind again—Camille on her knees in front of me, those blue eyes looking up as she takes me into her mouth for the first time.
The memory is so vivid I can almost feel the wet heat of her tongue, the tentative way she explored me before growing bolder.
"Shit," I hiss, increasing the pressure, the speed. In my mind, I'm back in Antigua, Camille beneath me on the terrace lounger, her legs wrapped around my waist as I drive into her. No condom. Nothing between us. The way she clenched around me when she came, pulling my own release from me.
My breath comes faster now, matching the rhythm of my hand. I remember the taste of her skin, salt and sweetness. The sounds she made when I hit just the right spot inside her. The way she moaned my name.
I twist my wrist on the upstroke, imagining it's her hand. The pressure builds, tension coiling tighter with each stroke. I'm close, so close, just like in the dream.
"Fuck," I groan into the darkness, hot streaks of cum shooting across my stomach and chest. The release is intense but hollow, physical relief without emotional satisfaction.
For a few moments, I lie there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
The sheets beneath me are damp with sweat, my skin cooling rapidly under the ceiling fan.
The momentary clarity that follows orgasm brings with it a feeling of self-disgust. Is this what I've been reduced to?
Jerking off to memories of a woman I deliberately walked away from?
I clean myself up with tissues from the nightstand, then fall back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted yet knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep. My mind drifts to what Tristan said at lunch about Julian stopping by Camille's place. Bringing her soup because he’s worried about her.
Is he in her bed now? Is she touching him the way she touched me? Whispering his name the way she whispered mine?
The thought makes my stomach clench with something dangerously close to jealousy. Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on her. I gave up that right when I left her without saying goodbye.
My alarm will go off in an hour and a half.
Another day of meetings and decisions and pretending I'm fully present when half my mind is still in Antigua.
This has to stop. I need to move on. Maybe I should call Sophia, or Alessandra—women who understand my rules of engagement.
No strings, no expectations, just mutually satisfying arrangements with clear boundaries.
But even as I consider it, I know it won't work. They're not her. They're not Camille with her quiet determination, her brilliance, her vulnerability that she tries so hard to hide.
I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, as if I could physically push thoughts of her from my mind. This isn't a problem I can solve with money or power or business strategy. This is something else entirely, something I don't have the tools to address.
Because the truth—the truth I've been running from since I left that island—is that Camille Montclair got under my skin in a way no woman ever has. She made me want things I've spent my adult life avoiding. Made me question the walls I've built around myself, the rules I've lived by.
The sky outside my window begins to lighten, darkness giving way to the first hints of dawn.
I reach for my phone again, opening my email instead of my contacts.
Work. That's the answer. That's always been the answer.
Bury myself in contracts and projections and acquisitions until there's no room left for thoughts of blue eyes and blonde hair and the way she fit against me like she was made for me.