"Let’s go," I tell Vince, turning my back on the view and whatever possibilities it might have held.
An hour later, the jet lifts off the runway, banking sharply over the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. I watch through the window as the island grows smaller, the resort becoming a tiny speck. A tightness grips my chest that I refuse to acknowledge as regret. This is how it has to be.
Vince sits across from me, absorbed in his tablet, mercifully not mentioning my hasty departure or the note I left behind. I wonder if Camille has received it yet. If she's reading those cold, impersonal words and wondering what happened to the man who held her so tight last night.
I close my eyes, but that's a mistake. Behind my eyelids, I see her—Camille stepping out of the hot tub, water streamingdown her naked body. Camille biting her lip as she comes apart beneath me. Camille this morning, sleep-warm and soft in my arms.
"Fuck," I mutter, opening my eyes and reaching for the scotch the flight attendant has already poured for me.
Vince glances up. "Problem?"
"Nothing," I say tersely, taking a long swallow of the amber liquid. It burns going down, but not enough to make me forget.
This is better for both of us. What could I possibly offer Camille beyond a few weeks of great sex? She deserves someone who can give her the future she wants—marriage, family, stability. All the things I've spent my adult life avoiding.
And me? I have an empire to run. No room for distractions, no matter how tempting they might be.
I pull out my laptop, forcing my attention to business. First order: an email to Tristan and Julian. My fingers hover over the keys for a moment before I begin typing:
Camille Montclair of Evoque Design would be perfect for both your projects. Her aesthetic sensibility is exceptional, and she has a unique talent for understanding the vision behind a space and elevating it beyond expectations.
Her contact information is attached. I've already mentioned to her that you might be in touch.
Alex
I read it over, finding it oddly difficult to hit send. Am I truly doing this for her benefit—giving her valuable connections that will help her business grow? Or am I just ensuring that she'll remain in my orbit, working with my closest friends, impossible to forget completely?
The truth is something I'm not ready to face.
I hit send anyway.
The plane levels off at cruising altitude. Below us, clouds stretch like a white carpet over the ocean. I should be reviewing quarterly reports or planning my strategy for next week's board meeting. Instead, I find myself thinking about what made Camille different.
It wasn't just the sex, though that was undeniably spectacular. It was the way she challenged me without trying, the flash of intelligence in her eyes when she caught something others missed. The quiet confidence in her work that contrasted with her vulnerability in private moments. The way she carried herself like she had something to prove—to herself, not to anyone else.
She reminded me of myself when I was younger, hungry and determined. Except she has a softness I never allowed myself, an openness I've always avoided.
Maybe that's why I had to leave. She was beginning to make me question whether the walls I've built around myself are protecting me or just keeping me isolated.
Vince interrupts my thoughts. "Do you want me to arrange a car to take you straight to the office, or home?"
"The office," I decide. I need to stay buried in work.
I open a financial report, determined to focus on something—anything—other than the woman I'm flying away from. The numbers blur before my eyes, meaningless symbols that fail to engage my usually razor-sharp attention.
What is she doing right now? Has she read my note? Is she hurt, angry, relieved? Does she understand that I'm doing this for her own good?
Or is that just what I tell myself to justify running away?
As the jet carries me farther away from her, I can't shake the feeling that something significant is slipping through my fingers.
Chapter 11
Camille
Idrop my bags on the floor and collapse onto the couch, the springs groaning beneath me.
Nothing feels right anymore. I'm not the same person who left for Antigua a week ago. That Camille was whole. That Camille hadn't been split open and left behind by Alexander Kingsley.
