I cross the room in long strides. Camille turns at the sound of my footsteps, eyes widening slightly when she sees me.
"Mr. Kingsley," she says, straightening. "I was just discussing the placement of?—"
"I heard." I move to stand directly behind her, close enough that I’m almost touching her. The electrician's eyes dart to me, then away quickly. "Is there a problem with the installation?"
My tone makes it clear I'm not simply asking about light fixtures. The man shifts uncomfortably on his ladder.
"No sir," he mumbles. "Just finalizing the placement."
"Then I suggest you focus on Ms. Montclair's instructions."
The warning is unmistakable. Camille's back stiffens, her head turning slightly as if trying to read my expression without fully facing me.
"The mark is there," she says, her voice steadier than I expected. She points again, and this time the electrician's eyes stay exactly where they should.
I place my hand lightly on her lower back—a brief, possessive touch that could be interpreted in several different ways. The electrician doesn't miss it. His eyes flick to my hand, then back to the ceiling with renewed focus.
"Perfect," I murmur, my mouth closer than it should be to Camille's ear. "Exactly as you specified."
What troubles me is how natural that protective gesture felt. How right my hand feels at the small of her back. How badly I want to slide it around her, pull her against me, and claim her.
This is dangerous—I know better than to blur these lines. But with Camille Montclair, all my carefully constructed rules seem suddenly fragile, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Later that night, I’m reviewing the day's reports in my suite. A tropical storm has moved in earlier than expected—nothing severe, but enough to bring winds and rain that beat against the windows in rhythmic pulses.
I've just finished a video call with the New York office when the lights flicker once, twice, then flick off completely. The backup generator should kick in within seconds, but when nothing happens, I reach for my phone's flashlight. My first thought shouldn't be of Camille, but it is.
I move through the darkened hallways, phone light casting elongated shadows across unfinished walls.
"Harrison," I call out to my head of security when I spot his flashlight beam. "Report."
"Main transformer blew, sir." His face appears ghostly in the reflected light. "Backup generator failed to engage—wiring issue, most likely. Maintenance is on it, but it could be thirty minutes."
I nod. "Staff locations?"
"Most are in the main building. Ms. Montclair was last seen in the east wing sample room."
Of course she was. Working late, probably lost in design details. The east wing is the furthest from completed, with exposed wiring and partially installed flooring. Not a safe place to navigate in complete darkness.
"I'll check on her," I say. "Update me when there's progress."
I don't wait for his acknowledgment, already turning toward the east corridor. It's a reasonable concern, I tell myself. She'sunfamiliar with the property. A responsible employer would ensure her safety.
The lie tastes bitter. I want to find her because I can't stop thinking about her—about that brief touch earlier, the way she'd tensed and then softened under my hand. The slight intake of breath when I'd spoken close to her ear.
The sample room is pitch black when I reach it—no windows, no emergency lights installed yet. I pause in the doorway, listening. At first, there's nothing but the distant sound of rain. Then I hear it—the subtle shift of movement.
"Ms. Montclair?" I keep my voice low, not wanting to startle her.
A sharp intake of breath. "Mr. Kingsley? I was just trying to find my phone. I set it down somewhere..."
I move toward her voice, careful not to trip over the samples and materials I know are scattered throughout the room. My light catches on the edge of a table, then sweeps up to find her.
"Are you okay?" I ask, stepping closer.
She nods, then seems to realize I might not be able to see the gesture clearly. "Yes. Just... disoriented. I wasn't expecting everything to go so completely dark."
The beam of my phone catches on her face—the delicate sweep of her cheekbones, lips slightly parted. Her hair has come loose from its careful arrangement, falling around her shoulders in soft waves. She looks younger like this, more vulnerable. Something protective and possessive tightens in my chest.
