Chapter 35 #2
He sits across from me, leaning forward slightly.
"I've already spoken with three of her biggest clients.
Turns out they weren't aware that certain unique elements in their designs were 'borrowed' from other designers' portfolios.
I've got a friend at the ASID who's very interested in reviewing her work for potential ethics violations. "
"And that's just the beginning," he continues with a predatory smile. "I've also learned that her company's financials aren't as clean as they should be. Tax discrepancies. Improperly classified expenses. The kind of things the IRS finds very interesting."
I whistle low. "You've been busy."
"When someone comes after what's mine, I don't play games." The possessiveness in his tone doesn't bother me the way it once might have. We've all found our equilibrium in this unusual relationship, each caring for Camille in our own ways.
"What about legally?" I ask. "Can we sue her for defamation?"
Alex nods. "We can but lawsuits are slow, public, and give her a platform. I prefer methods that are faster and more... direct."
"And what does Camille think about all this?"
His hesitation tells me everything.
"You haven't told her."
"Not yet." He picks up his glass again, studying the amber liquid. "I wanted to be sure first. And I wanted to discuss strategy with you and Tristan before bringing it to her."
I understand his reasoning. Camille is already stressed enough about the media attention. Learning that someone she knows personally orchestrated it might push her anxiety even higher—a state that’s not good for her or the baby.
"She needs to know," I say finally. "But maybe not every detail of how you plan to dismantle Fiona's life."
Alex nods, a silent acknowledgment of the balance we're all trying to strike—protecting Camille without making decisions for her.
"I assume Tristan knows?" I ask.
"I spoke with him earlier. He's talking to some of his contacts, looking for additional pressure points."
I shake my head, a reluctant smile forming. "You two and your methodical approach. Sometimes a direct hit works better."
"Like buying a tabloid?" His eyebrow raises, amusement briefly replacing the cold fury.
"Exactly like that." I lean back, considering. "You know, it might be interesting to run a feature on 'Interior Design's Dirty Secrets' with Fiona as the star. Fight fire with fire."
"Too obvious," Alex dismisses. "She'd use it to play victim. Better to let her destruction appear to come from multiple, unrelated directions."
"Need any help?" I offer.
His smile is small but genuine. "I wouldn't say no to your contacts in sports media. Several of her high-profile clients are athletes."
"Consider it done." I reach for the scotch bottle, refreshing his glass. "To taking down backstabbing bitches."
He raises his glass to me. "And protecting what matters."
We drink in companionable silence, united in purpose if not in method. By morning, the first pieces of Alex's plan will be in motion. And Fiona Astor will learn what happens when you target someone under the protection of not one, but three men with virtually unlimited resources.
God help her.
I find Camille sitting on my couch the next day, a letter clutched in her hands. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, as if she's moved beyond tears to something else—something quieter but deeper.
She doesn't look up when I enter, her gaze fixed on whatever words have put that wounded look on her face. I know immediately it must be bad. Camille doesn't do quiet sadness. She's all bright smiles or passionate tears or determined focus.
"Hey," I say softly, dropping my gym bag by the door. "What's wrong?"
She looks up, and the hollow smile she offers twists something in my chest.
"My parents sent me a letter." She holds up the paper, its crisp folds and embossed letterhead visible even from where I stand. "Like I'm a business associate rather than their daughter."
I sit beside her, close enough that our thighs touch. "May I?"
She hands it over without a word, then leans back and closes her eyes.
The letter is as heavy as the expensive paper it's written on.
Phrases jump out at me as I scan the text: "deeply troubled by your continued choices," "shameful situation," "embarrassing the family name," "before it's too late.
" The final paragraph is the kicker—an ultimatum dressed up in parental concern, demanding she "come to her senses" and begin to "repair the damage done to her reputation. "
There's no mention of the baby. No acknowledgment of Camille's feelings or her right to choose her own path. Just demands and shame wrapped in formal language and signed with a flourish: "Your concerned parents, Edward and Lacy Montclair."
"Jesus," I mutter, fighting the urge to crumple the paper into a ball and throw it across the room. "This is..."
"Yeah." Camille's voice is flat.
I set the letter on the coffee table, turning to face her fully. "I'm so sorry, baby."
She shrugs, a small gesture that tries to minimize the hurt I can clearly see written across her face. "They've made their position clear from the beginning. I don't know why this is surprising. I guess I just hoped they’d get used to the situation."
But I understand why it feels different. A phone call can be dismissed as heat-of-the-moment emotion. A formal letter is deliberate. Calculated. Someone sat down and thought about exactly how to phrase their disapproval.
"I just don't understand," she continues. "How can they just... dismiss everything? My feelings, my choices, my life?" Her voice catches slightly. "They don't even mention the baby."
I take her hand in mine, threading our fingers together. "Because this isn't about you or the baby. It's about them—their image, their social standing, how they appear to their friends."
"I know that. Logically, I know that." A tear finally escapes, tracking slowly down her cheek. "But it still hurts."
I wipe the tear away with my thumb. "Of course it does. They're your parents. You're supposed to be able to count on them to love you unconditionally."
She leans into my touch, seeking comfort. "Part of me wants to call them, to try one more time to make them understand. But another part just wants to..." She trails off, unable to articulate the complicated mix of emotions I can see playing across her face.
"To tell them to go to hell?" I suggest, trying to lighten the moment.
She manages a small, genuine smile. "Something like that."
I shift, pulling her closer until she's nestled against my side, her head on my shoulder. We sit in silence for a few moments, my hand stroking her arm, her breathing gradually steadying.
"You know," I say finally, "my father didn't speak to me for two years after I quit professional soccer."
She looks up, surprised. I don't talk about my family much.
"He'd built this whole identity around being Julian Fairfax's father, the man who raised a sports star. When I walked away from it, he felt like I'd taken something from him."
"Did you ever regret it? Walking away?"
"Not for a second." I press a kiss to her temple. "Because I made that choice for me, not for him or anyone else."
She absorbs this, her fingers idly playing with the hem of my shirt. "And now? Are you and your father okay?"
"We are. It took time, but he came around. Realized that my happiness mattered more than his expectations."
"I don't know if my parents will ever come around," she admits quietly.
"Maybe they will, maybe they won't. But either way, it doesn't change us." I gently turn her face toward mine. "They don't get to have an opinion on our happiness, Cami."
The simple truth of it seems to reach her. Something in her expression shifts, a burden lifting slightly.
"Our happiness is what matters. You, me, Tristan, Alex. The baby. The life we're building together." I brush another kiss against her forehead. "It's definitely not the norm, but it works for us. And anyone who can't see how real it is, how good it is? They don't need to be part of our world."
She nods slowly, then reaches for the letter on the coffee table. With deliberate movements, she tears it in half, then quarters, then eighths.
"Better?" I ask, smiling at the small act of defiance.
"Much." She gives me a smile. "Though I might need ice cream to fully process this emotional breakthrough."
I laugh, the tension finally broken. "That I can definitely provide. Chocolate chip or caramel cashew?" I start to rise, but she pulls me back.
"Julian," she says, her voice soft but steady. "Thank you. For always knowing what to say, what I need to hear."
I cup her face in my hands, suddenly overcome with how much I love this woman. "Sweet thing, that's the easy part. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."
She kisses me then, a slow, tender press of lips that communicates everything words can't. When we part, the wounded look is gone from her eyes, replaced by something more resolute.
"Chocolate chip," she says, a genuine smile playing at her lips. "Two spoons. And maybe call Tristan and Alex? I could use all of your company tonight."
"Coming right up." I stand, watching as she settles back against the cushions. The letter is forgotten for now, its toxic message neutralized by our certainty in what we've built together.