"Yes, sir."
I turn back to my computer, firing off three emails in quick succession. Alexander's recommendation carries weight—he doesn't waste time on mediocrity—but professionalism is non-negotiable in my world. I've terminated contracts over less.
The penthouse project requires someone with vision. The units need to feel exclusive without being cold, minimalist without feeling empty. Not an easy balance to strike. Alexander claimed Camille understood that balance intuitively, but perhaps his judgment was clouded by other factors. He didn't elaborate on their working relationship, but something in his tone when he mentioned her name suggested complications.
When Maggie finally announces Camille's arrival at nine-fifteen, I'm even more irritated. I consider making her wait, a petty power play I sometimes employ, but decide against it.
"Send her in."
I don't rise from my desk when the door opens. I expect to see someone flustered, apologetic, perhaps intimidated by the situation.
What I don't expect is her.
Camille Montclair is small—that's my first impression. Delicate. Blonde hair frames a face that's both youthful and somehow completely self-possessed. Her blue eyes meet mine directly, no hint of intimidation despite the circumstances. She's dressed professionally in a simple black dress that looks expensive in that understated way that actually costs more than flashy clothing.
Something shifts in my chest, a subtle realignment I wasn't prepared for.
"Mr. Vale," she says, crossing my office with confident steps. "I'm truly sorry for the delay. My car wouldn't start, and the Uber took forever."
Her voice is soft but clear, with none of the breathless rushing I expected. She extends her hand, and I find myself standing to take it.
"Ms. Montclair." Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is firm. "I appreciate you making it eventually."
A slight smile touches her lips at my dry tone. "I value punctuality as much as you do, I promise. This isn't typical for me."
I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Let's hope not."
She takes the seat gracefully, placing her portfolio on her lap. Up close, I notice details I missed—the slight shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders despite her composed expression.
"Alexander Kingsley speaks highly of your work," I say, watching her carefully.
Something flickers across her face at his name—a micro-expression so brief I almost miss it. Pain? Annoyance? Whatever it is, she masks it quickly.
"I'm grateful for his recommendation," she says evenly. Professional, controlled. But there's something underneath. Something happened between them in Antigua. The question is whether it will affect her ability to work with me.
"Tell me about your approach to minimalist spaces," I say, moving the conversation to safer ground.
She opens her portfolio and slides it across to me. "Minimalism isn't about emptiness—it's about intention. Every element that remains should serve either function or beauty, preferably both."
I flip through her designs. They're good—better than good. There's a thoughtfulness to her work, a consideration of how spaces feel to inhabit, not just how they look in photographs.
"These designs," I say, pausing on renderings of what must be Alexander's resort. "The integration of indoor and outdoor elements is impressive."
"Thank you." She leans forward slightly. "The Caribbean environment demands that relationship with nature. Yourpenthouses will require something different—an elevation above the city while still maintaining a connection to it."
Smart. She's done her research on my properties.
"And how would you achieve that?"
She doesn't hesitate. "Strategic sight lines. Materials that echo urban textures but with warmer undertones. Height variations in the furniture to mirror the cityscape. The juxtaposition creates harmony without sacrificing the clean lines minimalism requires."
I lean back, studying her. She speaks with quiet confidence about her craft. No unnecessary embellishments in her language—like her designs, her words are precise and purposeful.
"The model units need to appeal to a very specific clientele," I tell her. "People who could live anywhere in the world but choose New York. They want space that feels exclusive but not isolating."
"I understand that market," she nods. "They're not buying square footage—they're buying a feeling. Exceptional without being ostentatious."
I find myself impressed despite my initial irritation. "And you believe you can deliver that feeling?"
