"Shit," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Here we go again."
It's a pattern I know too well. My ex-wife called it my "hero complex"—this tendency to fall hard and fast for women who seem to need saving. During my playing days, I was notorious for it. The supermodel going through a messy divorce. The actress struggling with fame. The photographer battling her demons. I'd swoop in, all charm and concern, convinced this time was different. This time was real.
It never was.
"She's not some damsel in distress," I tell myself out loud. "She's a woman dealing with something personal that's none of your business."
But even as I say it, I remember how small she looked in that massive conference room, how she seemed to fold into herself when she thought no one was watching. And I remember that moment in the elevator when our eyes met, when something unspoken passed between us that felt like recognition. Not ofeach other, necessarily, but of something shared. Something understood.
My phone buzzes with a text from Tristan.
Did Camille seem off to you today?
So he noticed too. I tap out a reply.
Definitely. She was ill at our first meeting as well.
His response comes quickly.
Alex was acting weird last night when we mentioned her name.
I stare at the screen, pieces connecting in my mind. Alex and Camille in Antigua. His hasty departure. Her illness. Her distress when his name comes up.
Could they be connected? And if so, how?
The speculation feels intrusive, but I can't stop my mind from spinning possibilities. Did something happen between them beyond a professional relationship? Did he hurt her somehow?
"Not your business," I remind myself firmly, setting the phone aside. But the concern remains, settling in my chest like a very heavy weight.
I stand again, decision made before I fully realize it. I'll go check on her. Just as a friend. Just to make sure she's okay. I can offer to grab some takeout, or suggest we grab a bite somewhere if she's feeling up to it. Nothing presumptuous, nothing that crosses a line. Just one human being concerned about another.
"Right. Because that's all this is," I mutter sarcastically to my reflection in the window.
My assistant looks up in surprise when I grab my jacket. "Heading out early?"
"Got an errand to run," I say, not quite meeting her eyes. She's worked for me long enough to recognize my evasions, but professional enough not to call me on them. "Text me if anything urgent comes up."
Outside, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows between buildings. I flag down a taxi, giving the driver Camille's address before I can talk myself out of this impulsive decision. I remember it from when I dropped her home after our first meeting.
The taxi weaves through Manhattan traffic while I rehearse what to say. ‘Just in the neighborhood’ sounds fake. ‘Wanted to follow up on the project’ sounds too professional. ‘Was worried about you’ sounds too personal.
Maybe I should have called first. This is presumptuous, showing up unannounced. Intrusive, even. She might not be home. Or worse, she might be home but not alone. The thought sends an uncomfortable pang through me that I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.
But as the taxi approaches her building, I silence the doubting voice in my head. Something is wrong with Camille Montclair. I sensed it this morning, and my instincts about people are rarely wrong. Professional boundaries be damned—I need to know she's okay.
And if she tells me to piss off, well, I've faced worse rejections in my life.
I pay the driver and step onto the sidewalk, looking up at her building. It's a nice pre-war structure, elegant without being ostentatious. The doorman gives me a once-over as I approach.
"I'm here to see Camille Montclair," I say, summoning the confidence that once carried me onto pitches before thousands of screaming fans.
He nods. "I'll ring her apartment."
As he picks up the phone, I take a deep breath. This could be a mistake. But I just can’t help myself.
The hallway outside Camille's apartment is quiet. I knock on the door and wait, shifting my weight from foot to foot.I’m suddenly aware of how strange this must seem—turning up unannounced at her home like some lovesick teenager.
Just as I'm considering leaving, the door opens. Camille stands there in gray sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot. "Julian? What are you doing here?"
