But the hollow feeling in my chest tells a different story. It tells me that I made a mistake letting her go. That what I thought was self-preservation was actually cowardice. That in pushing her away to avoid pain, I've caused myself exactly the suffering I was trying to prevent.
The penthouse suddenly feels too large, too empty. I'm here alone, while Camille is with Julian and Tristan. Both of them. At the same time.
The realization of what that might mean—of how they might be sharing her—hits me with such visceral force that I have to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. The images that flood my mind are torture, but I can't seem to stop them. Camille between them, her small body caught between their larger frames. Her lips, her hands, her attention divided between two men who aren't me.
I need to stop this. I need to accept that I had my chance with Camille and I fucking threw it away. That she's moved on. That whatever she's doing with Julian and Tristan is her business, not mine.
But as I stand in my empty penthouse with the taste of expensive whiskey on my tongue and the memory of Camille's startled eyes meeting mine across a crowded room, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I'm not ready to let her go.
The familiar leather and mahogany interior of my neighborhood bar offer a false promise of comfort. I scan the room, seeking anonymity, but find precisely the opposite when Michael Davidson catches my eye from a corner booth and raises his glass in recognition. Next to him sits Stuart Hunter, both of them obviously a few drinks in, ties askew, smiles too wide.
Just what I need—two business acquaintances with no sense of boundaries or discretion. I consider turning around, but Michael is already waving me over, and walking out now would be an obvious snub.
"Kingsley! Get over here, man," Michael calls, his voice carrying across the quiet bar. Several patrons glance our way, and I feel my jaw tighten. So much for a peaceful drink alone.
I approach their booth, arranging my features into something resembling friendliness. "Michael. Stuart. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Post-gala decompression," Michael explains, gesturing to their beer glasses. "Those charity things are always such a drag."
I signal to the bartender for a scotch, neat, before sliding into the booth next to Michael. Both men work in finance—Michael in private equity, Stuart in venture capital. We've crossed paths often enough at events like tonight's gala and done business together occasionally. They're useful connections, nothing more.
"Saw you there with Fiona Astor," Michael says, a suggestive edge to his voice. "Finally giving in to her persistence, huh?"
I accept my drink from the server with a nod of thanks, taking a deliberate sip before answering. "We were just there as friends."
Stuart snorts, exchanging a knowing look with Michael. "Right. Friends. That woman's been after you for years now."
"Perhaps." My tone makes it clear I'm not interested in discussing Fiona, but subtlety has never been either man's strong suit.
"Can't blame her for trying," Michael says.
"Did you catch the gossip tonight?" Michael leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Vale and Fairfax seem to be sharing more than just business interests these days."
I keep my expression neutral with an effort that feels herculean. "Is that so?"
"Oh yeah," Stuart chimes in, clearly delighted to be passing on gossip about men richer and more powerful than himself. "They showed up with this young woman between them—and I mean literally between them. One on each side, both of them touching her constantly. Not even trying to be subtle about it."
"Apparently they've been spotted with her several times now," Michael adds. "Always the same setup. Both of them with her, like some kind of arrangement."
The scotch turns sour in my mouth. I set the glass down carefully, aware that if I grip it any tighter, it might shatter. "That doesn't sound like Tristan or Julian."
Michael shrugs. "People are saying it's serious. That they've both fallen for the same woman and decided to share rather than fight it out." He leans closer, his breath sour with alcohol. "Must be something special in bed to keep two guys like that happy, huh?"
My vision darkens at the edges. "Do you know who this woman is?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I need to hear it confirmed, need to know that what I suspected—what I feared—is real.
"Young blonde. Pretty in that innocent kind of way," Stuart says. "Someone said she works in interior design."
A sinking feeling settles in my gut, heavy as lead. Camille. They're talking about Camille. My Camille, now apparently shared between my two closest friends. The thought makes me want to put my fist through something, preferably someone's face.
"Seems like a step up for her," Michael comments, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Going from one billionaire to two. That's what I call upward mobility."
I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my half-finished drink. "Excuse me."
Both men look startled by my sudden movement. "Everything okay?" Stuart asks, frowning.
"Fine. Just remembered a call I need to make." The lie comes easily. "International client. Time difference." I'm already backing away from the table, desperate to escape before I say or do something I'll regret.
"Gentlemen, enjoy your evening," I say.
