I don't wait for their response, making a beeline for the exit. The cool night air hits my face, but it does nothing to calm the fire raging inside me. I walk blindly, hands shoved deep in my pockets, mind racing.
Tristan and Julian. With Camille. All three of them. Together.
I'd seen it with my own eyes tonight—the way they flanked her, the casual intimacy in their touches. But hearing it laid out so crudely, knowing that it's become common gossip in our circles... the betrayal cuts deeper than I expected.
I didn't answer her texts so she decided to sleep with my two closest friends? The thought loops endlessly, feeding my anger. What kind of revenge is this? What the hell is she thinking?
And Julian and Tristan… they know what happened between Camille and me. Yet they pursued her anyway, both of them, creating some kind of twisted arrangement that's now the talk of Manhattan's elite.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half-hoping it's her, but it's just an email notification.
I wonder what her most recent texts were about. Was she trying to tell me about Julian and Tristan? Was she asking for permission? Or just rubbing it in my face?
The cool, logical part of my brain—the part that runs my empire with ruthless efficiency—reminds me that I have no right to be angry. I ended things. I pushed her away. I ignored her attempts to reach out. Whatever she's doing now, whoever she's doing it with, is none of my concern.
But the possessive part of me—the part that can’t forget how she felt under me—rejects that reasoning entirely. Camille was mine. And now she's with my friends. Both of them.
By the time I reach my building, I've made a decision. I need to talk to Tristan and Julian. Need to understand what the hell isgoing on. Need to hear from them directly that they're involved with Camille in the way everyone is suggesting.
The conversation won't be pleasant. It might end friendships that have lasted for years. But I can't just ignore this, can't pretend I don't know, can't go on acting like it doesn't tear me apart to think of Camille in their beds.
As I step into the elevator, I pull out my phone and send the same text to both of them:
We need to talk. My office. Tomorrow. 9 am.
The response is swift, almost simultaneous:
Julian:About?
Tristan:Is this about Camille?
I stare at Tristan's message, the direct acknowledgment sending anger through me. At least he's not pretending.
Tomorrow, I'll get answers. Tomorrow, I'll confront them about Camille. Tomorrow, I'll figure out what the hell I'm going to do about the fact that I can't get her out of my head, even knowing she's moved on—with my two best friends, no less.
Chapter 24
Tristan
The coffee burns my tongue as I take too big a sip, focused on the proposal in front of me rather than the temperature of my drink. Numbers blur together on the page – projections for the new development in Brooklyn that should hold my attention but don't.
My mind keeps circling back to Alexander's text from last night, the curt demand for a meeting. He didn't respond when I asked if it was about Camille. He didn't need to.
My phone vibrates against the marble countertop, the screen lighting up with my sister's name.
I swipe to open the message:Are you and Julian dating the same woman? People are talking.
Shit.
I set the phone down, rubbing my temples. This is exactly what I was worried about when Julian and I first discussed our arrangement with Camille. The whispers, the sideways glances, the inevitable questions from people who have no business asking.
"Fuck 'em. Who cares?" Julian had said, sprawled across my couch, beer in hand, casual as always. Easy for him to say with his devil-may-care attitude. He's spent his whole life not givinga damn what people think. I don't have that luxury. In my business, reputation matters.
I pick up my phone again, typing out the coward's response:What are you talking about?
The three dots appear immediately.
Don't play dumb, Tristan. It's all over the place after that gala last night. You and Julian with the same blonde. I heard she doesn’t even look old enough to drink.
