I never replied. Responding would have been cruel—giving her hope for something I can't offer. Better to let her think I'm an asshole (because I am). Better to let her move on.
So why does the thought of her moving on make me want to put my fist through a wall?
I swivel my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office. Fifty-two floors above Manhattan, and I still can't get enough distance from these feelings. I have an empire to run. Quarterly reports to review. Board members to placate. I don't have time for this... whatever this is.
My intercom buzzes. "Mr. Kingsley? Mr. Vale is here to see you."
Perfect. Just what I need.
"Send him in," I tell my assistant, straightening my tie and schooling my features into something approaching professional detachment.
Tristan enters with his usual measured stride, expression unreadable as always. But there's something in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly where my mind has been.
"Alex," he says, taking the seat across from my desk without waiting for an invitation. "You look like you’ve got something heavy on your mind."
"Always do," I respond dryly. "Did you need something, or did you just come by to critique my mental health?"
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Thought you might want to grab lunch."
It's a peace offering. After our tense exchange at The Apex, we've been circling each other carefully. Tristan, unlike Julian, knows when to back off. Usually.
"Sure," I say, closing my laptop. "Quattro?"
He nods, and we make our way to the elevator in silence. It's only once we're seated at my usual table, food ordered, that he brings up the subject I've been dreading.
"I hired Camille Montclair for the Park Avenue project," he says, watching me over the rim of his water glass. "She's exceptional."
I force myself to meet his gaze steadily. "I told you she would be."
He sets down his glass. "She presented her preliminary designs yesterday. Julian and I met with her together."
My jaw tightens involuntarily. The thought of both of them with her, admiring her work, watching her explain her vision with that quiet confidence that drew me to her in the first place—it burns in my chest like acid.
"Efficient," I manage. "Killing two birds with one stone."
Tristan's eyes narrow slightly. "She didn't look well though."
"What do you mean?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"Pale. Distracted." His gaze is too perceptive, too knowing. "Julian seemed particularly concerned."
Of course he did. Julian and his fucking hero complex—always ready to swoop in and rescue a damsel in distress. The thought of him comforting Camille, touching her, looking at her with those soulful eyes that have melted panties across continents—it makes me want to hit something.
"I'm sure she's fine," I say, more sharply than intended.
"Are you?" Tristan leans forward slightly. "Sure she's fine? Or sure you don't care?"
"What happened between Camille and me was a business arrangement that included some ‘extracurriculars.’ It's over though. End of story."
"If that's true," Tristan says carefully, "then you won't mind that Julian seems totally into her."
My hand tightens around my glass of water. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." He holds my gaze steadily. "He mentioned stopping by her place yesterday evening. Something about soup."
Soup. Julian brought Camille soup. The domesticity of it makes my stomach clench. That should be me. But it can't be me.
"He's welcome to her," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "If she's naive enough to fall for his bullshit, that's her problem."
