Chapter 37
Alexander
"Are you ready for this?" I ask Camille, my voice low.
She nods. "More than ready."
The security guard recognizes me immediately—I've been here for consultations with Fiona before, back when I was considering hiring her. Before Camille. Before everything changed. He waves us through without question.
The elevator ride is silent. Julian stares at the floor numbers as they light up, while Tristan remains perfectly still beside him. Camille's hand finds mine, her fingers cool against my palm. I squeeze gently, a wordless promise. No one hurts what's mine.
When the doors slide open on the fourteenth floor, Fiona's receptionist looks up from her computer, recognition flickering across her face.
"Mr. Kingsley, do you have an appointment? I don't see you in Ms. Astor's calendar today."
"We don't need one," I reply, not breaking stride as we walk past her desk. She knows better than to protest as she takes in my expression.
Julian reaches the door first and pushes it open without knocking. Fiona sits at her desk, phone pressed to her ear, laughing at something. The laughter freezes on her face when she sees us. Her eyes widen, darting from me to Camille to Tristan to Julian, and back to me again.
"I'll call you back," she says into the phone, her voice tight. She sets it down carefully. "What a pleasant surprise. I don't believe we had an appointment scheduled for today though."
"We don't," I say, moving to stand directly in front of her desk. Tristan positions himself by the door—blocking it, though he makes the stance look casual. Julian leads Camille to one of the chairs opposite Fiona's desk, his hand resting on her shoulder.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this... unexpected visit?"
"You've had a lot to say about us," I say, my voice dropping to the register I use when I'm about to destroy someone in a negotiation. "Now we'll do the talking."
Her smile falters but doesn't quite disappear. "I'm not sure what you mean."
I take my time, unbuttoning my suit jacket and taking the seat beside Camille. "Let's not waste time with games, Fiona. We know you've been feeding stories to the tabloids. We know you've been orchestrating this entire media circus and trying to damage Camille's reputation."
A muscle in her jaw twitches, but she maintains her facade. "That's a serious accusation. And completely unfounded."
"Is it?" I reach into my inside pocket and withdraw my phone. "Because we have evidence that suggests otherwise."
"Those tabloids make up their own stories. That's what they do." Her voice rises slightly, fingers drumming on her desk.
"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Julian interjects, his usual playfulness replaced with something harder. "Considering you've been on their payroll."
Fiona's eyes narrow. "I don't have to sit here and listen to these baseless accusations. I think you should leave."
"Oh, we'll leave," I say, leaning forward. "After you understand exactly what's happening here."
I unlock my phone and turn it toward her, showing her the email that my contact at the Daily Herald forwarded to me—her own words proposing a "juicy story" about Camille's "scheme" to trap three wealthy men. I watch her face as she reads, as the color drains from her cheeks.
"That could be from anyone," she says, but her voice has lost its conviction.
I swipe to the next email. "How about this one?" This time it's her correspondence with a journalist at Metro Magazine, suggesting they investigate Camille's "suspicious rise" in the design world.
"Or this?" Another swipe reveals her text messages with a photographer, arranging payment for following Camille to her doctor's appointments.
"You've been very busy," Tristan observes from his position by the door.
Fiona's composure cracks. "You can't just hack into my accounts! That's illegal!"
"Hack?" I raise an eyebrow. "No one hacked anything. These were given to us willingly by the recipients. People you thought were your allies. Turns out they'd rather keep their jobs than protect you."
Her face contorts. "This is ridiculous. You can't come in here and threaten me."
"Sure we can," I reply, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "Because you’re just a jealous, vindictive woman who couldn't stand to see someone else succeed where you failed."
"Failed?" Her laugh is high and strained. "I didn't fail at anything. I've built a successful business. I have clients that most designers would kill for."
"But you didn't have me," I say simply. "And that bothered you, didn't it? That I chose Camille's firm over yours. That I chose her over you."
Something ugly flashes across her face. "She's not that special. She's obviously just willing to spread her legs for anyone with a big enough bank account."
Camille flinches beside me and Julian's hand tightens on her shoulder.
I remain perfectly still, letting the anger wash through me. When I speak, my voice is ice cold. "This is only the tip of the iceberg, Fiona. Make no mistake—we are going to take you down."
She laughs nervously. "With what? A few emails? Please. This will blow over like everything else."
"Will it?" I tilt my head, studying her.
"Because right now, three of your biggest clients are being shown evidence that you've stolen design elements from other firms. The Design Board of Ethics is reviewing a complaint about your business practices.
And the IRS is looking into some interesting discrepancies in your company's financial records. "
Her face goes absolutely still. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" I smile wickedly. "Your associate Thomas has been very helpful. Turns out he's been keeping detailed records of all your... creative accounting. He was quite happy to share them once we made it worth his while."
Her eyes widen in genuine shock. Thomas is her financial manager, someone she trusts implicitly. Or used to.
"You can't do this," she whispers, the fight draining from her voice. "My reputation—"
"Your reputation?" Tristan cuts in. "What about Camille's reputation? The one you've been systematically trying to destroy?"
Fiona's eyes dart between us, like a cornered animal searching for escape. I recognize the look—I've seen it countless times across negotiating tables. It's the look of someone who knows they've lost.
"This isn't over," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
"It is over," I reply, standing slowly. "It was over the moment you decided to target Camille. You just didn't know it yet."
I button my jacket, a gesture of finality. The satisfaction coursing through me is electric—not just for cornering Fiona, but for defending Camille. For protecting what's mine.
"We'll see ourselves out," I tell her, offering my hand to Camille, who takes it and stands up. "Your lawyer will be hearing from ours soon."
We turn to leave, Fiona's stunned silence following us. Just before we reach the door, I pause and look back at her, still frozen behind her desk.
"You thought you could destroy her reputation to get to me," I say quietly. "But all you did was destroy your own."
I'm about to lead us out when Camille pulls her hand from mine. She turns back to face Fiona, her spine straight, shoulders squared. Something fierce crosses her face—a look I've rarely seen from her, but one that makes my chest tighten with unexpected pride.
She steps forward, her pregnant belly evident beneath her fitted dress, a physical reminder of everything Fiona tried to taint with her lies.
"How dare you?" Camille's voice is steady, stronger than I've ever heard it. "What have I ever done to you?"
Fiona stares at her, mouth opening and closing like she can't form words.
"You don't even know me," Camille continues, her hands clenched at her sides. "You've never taken the time to have a real conversation with me. Yet you've spent months trying to destroy my reputation, my business, my relationships."
Julian moves slightly closer to Camille, a silent show of support, but he doesn't interrupt. This is her moment. I feel a surge of warmth watching her stand her ground.
"Was it really just because Alex chose my firm?" Camille asks, her voice catching slightly. "Or is it because he chose me? Is your own life so empty that you need to tear others down to feel better about yourself?"
Fiona's face flushes red. "You have no idea what you're talking about. You waltz into this industry with your connections and your pretty face, and suddenly everyone's falling all over themselves to work with you. Some of us had to earn our place."
"You think I haven't earned mine?" Camille's laugh is disbelieving. "I've worked seventy-hour weeks. I've dealt with clients who talked down to me because of my age. I built my business from nothing."
"From nothing?" Fiona scoffs. "With Daddy's money and his country club connections?"
I feel my jaw tighten at the attack, but Camille doesn't flinch.
"Yes, I had advantages," she acknowledges. "I don't deny that. But my success comes from my work, my vision. Not from destroying other people."
Fiona's eyes narrow. "You stole Alex from me. I'd been trying to land him as a client for years."
"I didn't steal anyone," Camille says firmly. "He chose me. And later..." her hand drifts to her stomach, "he chose me again. That's what really bothers you, isn't it? That despite all your efforts, you couldn't make him want you."
The words land like precise knife strikes. Fiona flinches visibly.
"You're just a temporary distraction," Fiona hisses. "A novelty. When he gets bored—"
"Enough," I cut in, my patience with her attacks on Camille exhausted.
I step forward again, placing myself slightly in front of Camille. The protective instinct is automatic, impossible to suppress. "If you have anything else to say, you’ll need to talk to us through our attorney."
Fiona's facade cracks further. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't actually sue me. The publicity—"
"Would be worth it," I finish for her. "Every tabloid that printed your lies will be named in the lawsuit. Every false quote, every fabricated source, every damaging story traced back to you. We have the resources to pursue this for years if necessary."
Her face pales. "This will ruin me."
"Yes," I agree simply. "It will."
Tristan speaks up from his position near the door. "Your choices led you here, Fiona. Not ours."
Fiona looks at each of us in turn, perhaps only now fully grasping the united front she's facing. Not just me, but all three of us standing with Camille, protecting her, defending her.
"I'll fight this," she says, but there's little conviction in her voice.
"You'll lose," I reply. "And it will cost you everything."
We turn away from Fiona's stricken face, moving toward the door. Tristan holds it open, and Julian follows after us. I take Camille's hand in mine as we pass the wide-eyed receptionist, who quickly busies herself with something on her computer screen.
In the elevator, Camille exhales slowly, leaning against me. "That was..."
"Perfect," I finish for her. "You were perfect."
Julian grins, some of his usual playfulness returning now that the confrontation is over. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Cami. You're terrifying when you want to be."
A small smile touches her lips, though I can feel the tension still lingering in her body. "I just couldn't not say something to her. Not after everything she's done."
Tristan watches her with quiet approval. "You stood your ground."
"We all did," she says, looking around at the three of us. "Thank you. For having my back."
The elevator reaches the ground floor and we step out together. I feel strangely lighter, as if we've shed a burden that's been weighing on us for months. The sunshine streaming through the building's glass facade seems brighter somehow.
"What now?" Julian asks as we walk toward the exit.
"Now," I say, "we go about our lives and let the lawyers handle the rest."
Camille nods against my shoulder. "And we focus on what matters. Our family. Our future."
I glance down at her profile, at the determined set of her jaw and the protective way her hand curves around her belly—our child.
This family we've built, this strange, beautiful arrangement that defies explanation—it's worth protecting. Worth fighting for.
Fiona never stood a chance.