Chapter 23
Alex
Iloosen my bow tie as soon as I shut the door behind me, fingers working at the constricting fabric around my neck. The penthouse is quiet, the silence amplifying the chaos in my head.
Seeing her tonight—seeing Camille standing there between Julian and Tristan—was like taking a punch to the gut that I wasn't prepared for. I toss my keys onto the marble counter, the metallic clatter echoing through the space.
I throw my jacket on the couch as I make my way to the bar cart. The amber liquid splashes into the crystal tumbler, and I down it in one burning swallow before pouring another. Tonight was a mistake. Going with Fiona was a mistake. Seeing Camille was—
No. I can't call it a mistake when it's been exactly what I've wanted for months. To see her. To know she's okay.
She looked stunning tonight. That pale blue dress hugging her small frame, her blonde hair swept up to reveal the delicate curve of her neck.
For a moment when our eyes locked across that crowded room, I felt everything else fade away.
There was only Camille, and the sudden sharp realization of how much I've missed her.
Then I registered who she was with.
I take another sip, letting the whiskey burn down my throat. Julian and Tristan. My closest friends. The memory of Julian's hand at the small of her back, of Tristan leaning close to whisper something in her ear that made her smile—it makes something dark and ugly twist inside me.
"Fuck," I mutter, stalking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Lights twinkle below, life continuing in its relentless flow while I stand here trapped in the quicksand of my own making.
Fiona's face appears in my mind—her smug expression when she spotted Camille, the way she deliberately tightened her grip on my arm.
She's always been transparent in her ambitions, her determination to stake her claim on me both professionally and personally.
I can still hear her voice, dripping with fake interest: "Is Camille with both Tristan and Julian tonight? "
I should never have agreed to attend with her. I don't even like her. But she'd caught me at a weak moment, when the loneliness felt particularly acute, and I'd thought—why not? It's just a charity event. Better than going alone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Fiona, wanting to make future plans. I ignore it. I have zero patience for her bullshit right now.
Is Camille with Julian and Tristan?
The thought comes with a feeling of bitterness.
I've known Julian since college—the golden boy, the charmer, the one who has women falling at his feet without even trying.
And Tristan, quieter but no less lethal in his own way.
I've seen them both work their magic countless times. But never like this. Never sharing.
The way they flanked her, their bodies angled toward hers like satellites locked in orbit—it was intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
Julian's easy smile, Tristan's intense focus, both directed at Camille as if she were the only woman in the room.
And Camille, her cheeks flushed, looking happy like—
When she was with me.
I turn away from the window, unable to stand still. The whiskey isn't helping. Nothing seems to help erase the image of Camille nestled between my two best friends, their hands finding excuses to touch her, their eyes following her every movement.
Is she with them to get back at me? The thought slices through me, sharp and cruel. Did she know how it would feel for me to see her with them? Or was it simply a matter of proximity—they were there, interested, while I had made myself deliberately absent?
I try to distract myself with work, pulling out my laptop at the kitchen island. There are contracts to review, emails to answer, a dozen tasks that usually consume my focus. But tonight my mind refuses to cooperate, circling back to Camille like a moth to flame.
I can still feel the softness of her skin under my hands. Still hear that little gasp she makes when—
"Enough," I growl, slamming the laptop shut.
This is ridiculous. I don't pine after women who've moved on. I don't torture myself over what might have been. I certainly don't begrudge my friends for finding someone who makes them happy, even if that someone once shared my bed.
But the hollow feeling in my chest tells a different story. It tells me that I made a mistake letting her go. That what I thought was self-preservation was actually cowardice. That in pushing her away to avoid pain, I've caused myself exactly the suffering I was trying to prevent.
The penthouse suddenly feels too large, too empty. I'm here alone, while Camille is with Julian and Tristan. Both of them. At the same time.
The realization of what that might mean—of how they might be sharing her—hits me with such visceral force that I have to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
The images that flood my mind are torture, but I can't seem to stop them.
Camille between them, her small body caught between their larger frames.
Her lips, her hands, her attention divided between two men who aren't me.
I need to stop this. I need to accept that I had my chance with Camille and I fucking threw it away. That she's moved on. That whatever she's doing with Julian and Tristan is her business, not mine.
But as I stand in my empty penthouse with the taste of expensive whiskey on my tongue and the memory of Camille's startled eyes meeting mine across a crowded room, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I'm not ready to let her go.
The familiar leather and mahogany interior of my neighborhood bar offer a false promise of comfort.
I scan the room, seeking anonymity, but find precisely the opposite when Michael Davidson catches my eye from a corner booth and raises his glass in recognition.
Next to him sits Stuart Hunter, both of them obviously a few drinks in, ties askew, smiles too wide.
Just what I need—two business acquaintances with no sense of boundaries or discretion. I consider turning around, but Michael is already waving me over, and walking out now would be an obvious snub.
"Kingsley! Get over here, man," Michael calls, his voice carrying across the quiet bar. Several patrons glance our way, and I feel my jaw tighten. So much for a peaceful drink alone.
I approach their booth, arranging my features into something resembling friendliness. "Michael. Stuart. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Post-gala decompression," Michael explains, gesturing to their beer glasses. "Those charity things are always such a drag."
I signal to the bartender for a scotch, neat, before sliding into the booth next to Michael.
Both men work in finance—Michael in private equity, Stuart in venture capital.
We've crossed paths often enough at events like tonight's gala and done business together occasionally.
They're useful connections, nothing more.
"Saw you there with Fiona Astor," Michael says, a suggestive edge to his voice. "Finally giving in to her persistence, huh?"
I accept my drink from the server with a nod of thanks, taking a deliberate sip before answering. "We were just there as friends."
Stuart snorts, exchanging a knowing look with Michael. "Right. Friends. That woman's been after you for years now."
"Perhaps." My tone makes it clear I'm not interested in discussing Fiona, but subtlety has never been either man's strong suit.
"Can't blame her for trying," Michael says.
"Did you catch the gossip tonight?" Michael leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Vale and Fairfax seem to be sharing more than just business interests these days."
I keep my expression neutral with an effort that feels herculean. "Is that so?"
"Oh yeah," Stuart chimes in, clearly delighted to be passing on gossip about men richer and more powerful than himself.
"They showed up with this young woman between them—and I mean literally between them.
One on each side, both of them touching her constantly. Not even trying to be subtle about it."
"Apparently they've been spotted with her several times now," Michael adds. "Always the same setup. Both of them with her, like some kind of arrangement."
The scotch turns sour in my mouth. I set the glass down carefully, aware that if I grip it any tighter, it might shatter. "That doesn't sound like Tristan or Julian."
Michael shrugs. "People are saying it's serious. That they've both fallen for the same woman and decided to share rather than fight it out." He leans closer, his breath sour with alcohol. "Must be something special in bed to keep two guys like that happy, huh?"
My vision darkens at the edges. "Do you know who this woman is?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I need to hear it confirmed, need to know that what I suspected—what I feared—is real.
"Young blonde. Pretty in that innocent kind of way," Stuart says. "Someone said she works in interior design."
A sinking feeling settles in my gut, heavy as lead. Camille. They're talking about Camille. My Camille, now apparently shared between my two closest friends. The thought makes me want to put my fist through something, preferably someone's face.
"Seems like a step up for her," Michael comments, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Going from one billionaire to two. That's what I call upward mobility."
I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my half-finished drink. "Excuse me."
Both men look startled by my sudden movement. "Everything okay?" Stuart asks, frowning.
"Fine. Just remembered a call I need to make." The lie comes easily. "International client. Time difference." I'm already backing away from the table, desperate to escape before I say or do something I'll regret.
"Gentlemen, enjoy your evening," I say.
I don't wait for their response, making a beeline for the exit. The cool night air hits my face, but it does nothing to calm the fire raging inside me. I walk blindly, hands shoved deep in my pockets, mind racing.
Tristan and Julian. With Camille. All three of them. Together.
I'd seen it with my own eyes tonight—the way they flanked her, the casual intimacy in their touches. But hearing it laid out so crudely, knowing that it's become common gossip in our circles... the betrayal cuts deeper than I expected.
I didn't answer her texts so she decided to sleep with my two closest friends? The thought loops endlessly, feeding my anger. What kind of revenge is this? What the hell is she thinking?
And Julian and Tristan… they know what happened between Camille and me. Yet they pursued her anyway, both of them, creating some kind of twisted arrangement that's now the talk of Manhattan's elite.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half-hoping it's her, but it's just an email notification.
I wonder what her most recent texts were about. Was she trying to tell me about Julian and Tristan? Was she asking for permission? Or just rubbing it in my face?
The cool, logical part of my brain—the part that runs my empire with ruthless efficiency—reminds me that I have no right to be angry. I ended things. I pushed her away. I ignored her attempts to reach out. Whatever she's doing now, whoever she's doing it with, is none of my concern.
But the possessive part of me—the part that can’t forget how she felt under me—rejects that reasoning entirely. Camille was mine. And now she's with my friends. Both of them.
By the time I reach my building, I've made a decision. I need to talk to Tristan and Julian. Need to understand what the hell is going on. Need to hear from them directly that they're involved with Camille in the way everyone is suggesting.
The conversation won't be pleasant. It might end friendships that have lasted for years. But I can't just ignore this, can't pretend I don't know, can't go on acting like it doesn't tear me apart to think of Camille in their beds.
As I step into the elevator, I pull out my phone and send the same text to both of them:
We need to talk. My office. Tomorrow. 9 am.
The response is swift, almost simultaneous:
Julian: About?
Tristan: Is this about Camille?
I stare at Tristan's message, the direct acknowledgment sending anger through me. At least he's not pretending.
Tomorrow, I'll get answers. Tomorrow, I'll confront them about Camille. Tomorrow, I'll figure out what the hell I'm going to do about the fact that I can't get her out of my head, even knowing she's moved on—with my two best friends, no less.