I manage a small smile. "I appreciate the offer, but no. It would be unprofessional."
"Fuck professional. He's the one who crossed that line." She narrows her eyes. "At least let me key his car?"
This time my laugh feels more genuine. "You're ridiculous."
"That's why you love me."
She raises her mug. "To moving on from emotionally stunted dickheads."
I clink my mug against hers, but inside, I'm not sure I'm ready to move on. The memory of Alexander is too fresh, tooraw. The way he looked at me while he was fucking me, the feel of his body against mine. How can I move on when every part of me still tingles at the thought of him?
"Thanks, Izz," I say instead. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably something boring and sensible." She grins. "Now finish your scone. Carbs help heal heartbreak. It's proven science."
I take a bite, tasting nothing. The coffee shop buzzes around us, and I try to anchor myself in this moment, with my best friend, in my city. Away from Antigua. Away from him. But even as I smile at Izzy's jokes, a part of me is still waiting for Alexander to walk back through the door and tell me it was all a mistake.
The worst part is knowing he won't.
The doorman at my parents' Upper East Side building nods in recognition as I step inside the marble lobby. "Good morning,Miss Montclair." He's been working here since I was a teenager, but somehow, I've never learned his name. Just another symptom of the world I grew up in—people in service roles reduced to their functions.
I smooth down my navy dress, chosen carefully to look "appropriate" by my mother's standards, and try to ignore the knot in my stomach. Sunday brunch: a Montclair family tradition and my personal monthly purgatory.
The elevator ascends silently to the penthouse floor. I check my reflection in its mirrored wall, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. There's a small hickey at the base of my neck that my collar doesn't quite cover. A souvenir from Alexander that I couldn't bring myself to conceal with makeup. A reminder that at least for a few days, he wanted me.
The doors slide open directly into my parents' foyer. Mother is already waiting, perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect smile paired with those cold ice-blue eyes.
"Camille, darling. You're three minutes late." She air-kisses both my cheeks, the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 enveloping me. "Your father's waiting in the dining room."
No "How are you?" No "How was your trip?" Just straight into criticism. I follow her across the expansive living room with its cream furniture that no one ever sits on.
Dad looks up from his newspaper when I enter the dining room. "There she is, our globetrotter." He stands to kiss my cheek, his aftershave sharp and expensive. "Back from your little Caribbean vacation."
And there it is. The dismissal of my work.
"It wasn't a vacation, Dad. It was a major project for Kingsley Resorts." I take my usual seat, immediately reaching for the coffee our housekeeper has just poured. "I was designing their new luxury property."
"Of course, of course." He waves his hand dismissively. "But you must have had some time to enjoy yourself. Got some sun. The tan looks good on you."
Mother takes a delicate bite of her croissant. "Did you meet anyone interesting?"
The question sends a jolt through me. For a wild moment, I consider telling them about Alexander—about how the billionaire CEO bent me over his desk and fucked me until I could barely speak. How he took my virginity and then discarded me with a note. Just to see their perfectly composed faces crack with shock.
Instead, I say, "Just other contractors and the resort staff. It was a working trip."
"Such a shame." Mother sighs. "All those wealthy vacationers, and you're focused on... curtain fabrics."
"Interior design is a bit more than curtain fabrics, Mom." I stab a piece of fruit with my fork. "The right design can transform a space, create emotional responses, influence behavior?—"
"Yes, yes, we know your little speech." She smiles tightly. "But really, Camille, you're twenty-four. Shouldn't you be thinking about more important things by now?"
"My career is important to me." The words come out sharper than intended.
Dad folds his newspaper. "Speaking of important matters. Helen and Richard Bradford's son is back in town. Bradford Financial? Very successful young man. Graduated Harvard Business two years ago."
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. "Patrick Bradford?"
"That's the one!" Dad beams. "Handsome fellow. Taking over the family business soon."
