The doorman gives me a sympathetic smile as I exit. Maybe he recognizes the look of someone who's just survived another Montclair family gathering. Or maybe he's just being polite.
I take a deep breath and walk away from the building, away from their expectations and disappointments. Between Alexander's rejection and my parents' dismissal, I feel small and insignificant.
I pop my earbuds in and blast my favorite playlist the whole way home.
When I arrive, I plop down on the couch and sit cross-legged, laptop balanced on my knees. The design board on my screen blurs as my mind drifts back to Antigua, to Alexander, to the note. I blink hard, refocusing. This is my life now – back to normal, back to the hustle of freelance design work. Back to being just me, not Alexander Kingsley's... whatever I was to him.
The notification sound from my email pulls me back to reality. I click over to my inbox and freeze when I see the name in the sender field: Julian Fairfax.
My heart stutters. Julian Fairfax—one of Alexander's friends that he mentioned in his goodbye note. The professional recommendation he'd tossed my way like some consolation prize for no longer having access to his bed.
I open the email with trembling fingers.
Subject: Community Center Project - Design Consultation
Hi Camille,
Alex Kingsley mentioned you might be the perfect designer for a project I've got in the works – a community center for underserved kids in Brooklyn. It's a place where they can do homework, hang out safely after school, and play sports.
I'd love to chat about your vision for creating a space that's welcoming but also functional and durable (these are kids, after all—they destroy everything). Alex was practically gushing about your work, which is rare—the man usually communicates in grunts.
Are you free for a coffee this week to discuss?
Cheers,
Julian Fairfax
I read it twice, stuck on the phrase "Alex was practically gushing about your work." Gushing? Alexander Kingsley doesn't gush. He appraises. He evaluates. He makes calculated decisions based on value and return on investment.
Was I just another good investment? A talented designer he could refer to friends even after he was done with me personally?
I don't have time to process this before my phone rings. Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something makes me answer.
"Hello?"
"Camille Montclair?" A deep voice, cool and measured.
"Yes..."
"This is Tristan Vale. Alexander Kingsley suggested I contact you regarding a design project."
My stomach drops. I sit up straighter, professional instincts kicking in despite my emotional whiplash. Why is he calling on a Sunday? Do these people ever take a day off?
"Mr. Vale. Yes, of course. What can I help you with?"
"I'm developing a series of luxury penthouses in Manhattan. The model units need a designer who understands minimalismwithout sacrificing warmth. Alexander said that describes your aesthetic perfectly."
I swallow hard. "He did?"
"Yes. He was quite insistent that you’re a good fit for the project." Tristan's voice remains neutral, revealing nothing about what else Alexander might have told him. "I've reviewed your portfolio online. Your work is impressive."
"Thank you." The words come out automatically.
"I'd like you to come to my office tomorrow morning to discuss specifics. My assistant will email you the details."
No "are you available?" Just an assumption that I'll drop everything for this opportunity. The arrogance reminds me so much of Alexander that I almost laugh.
"I'll check my schedule when I receive the email," I say, refusing to be completely bulldozed.
