We continue packing, and with each item that goes into the suitcase, my annoyance at the short notice fades a little more, replaced by anticipation. Whatever happens in Antigua—however it plays out with Alexander Kingsley—this is my shot. My chance to prove what I can do.
And I'm going to make damn sure I don't waste it.
Chapter 3
Camille
The humid air hits me like a wall when I step off the jet, wrapping around me in a tropical embrace that says "welcome to paradise, now prepare to sweat your ass off." I shield my eyes against the blinding Caribbean sun, taking in the sprawling property that will be my home for the next week.
Somewhere on these grounds, Alexander Kingsley is waiting—and my stomach churns at the thought of having to see him again. But at least I didn't have to spend four hours sitting next to him on the flight here.
A smiling attendant in crisp white linen guides me toward a waiting golf cart. "Welcome to Antigua, Ms. Montclair. I trust your flight was enjoyable?"
"It was perfect, thank you." The understatement of the century.
The golf cart purrs along a winding path lined with palm trees and flowering bushes that perfume the air. I'm still buzzing from the flight—still trying to process that less than twenty-four hours ago, I was sitting on my couch with Izzy, convinced my career was over. And now I'm here, my mind swimming with equal parts excitement and terror.
The private jet. My god, the private jet. When the sleek black car dropped me at a private airfield instead of the main terminal, I'd stood frozen on the tarmac, staring at the gleaming white aircraft with KINGSLEY emblazoned on its side in subtle silver lettering.
"Ms. Montclair?" The pilot had greeted me, taking my carry-on. "We're ready when you are."
I'd expected to find Alexander inside, braced myself for hours of awkward small talk and trying not to remember the feel of my hand against his... nope, not thinking about that. But instead, I found an empty cabin—all cream leather and polished wood, with just a flight attendant who introduced herself as Jenna.
"Mr. Kingsley had to adjust his schedule," she'd explained, offering me a glass of champagne. "He flew down early this morning."
The relief had been so immediate and intense that I almost laughed out loud. Four blissful hours of peace before having to face him again. Four hours to sip champagne that fizzed against my tongue, to sample incredible food, to stretch out on the enormous buttery leather seat.
I'd spent the first hour making notes on my tablet, researching Caribbean design elements and local materials, determined to impress Alexander with how prepared I was despite the short notice. By hour two, the champagne had kicked in just enough to loosen the knot of anxiety in my chest, and I'd allowed myself to enjoy the view from thirty thousand feet.
"I'd ask if this is your first time on a private jet, but I can tell by the look on your face," Jenna had said with a kind smile when she caught me running my fingers over the butter-soft leather armrest.
"That obvious, huh?" I'd grimaced, embarrassed to be so transparent.
"In the best way." She'd refilled my glass. "Most first-timers either try too hard to act unimpressed or they take selfies with everything. You're just... taking it in."
And I had. Every luxurious detail, every moment of service so intuitive I barely had to think a need before it was met. I'd even managed to nap for an hour, waking up to find a cashmere blanket tucked around me.
Now, as the golf cart winds through the property, I'm grateful for that unexpected reprieve. Grateful that Alexander's schedule change gave me those hours alone to center myself, to remember why I'm here—not because of some pity job offer, but because he saw something in my work that aligned with his vision.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself. The alternative—that this is all some elaborate setup for humiliation—is too awful to contemplate.
"Mr. Kingsley arrived this morning," the attendant explains, breaking into my thoughts. "He looks forward to meeting with you."
I nod, wondering what kind of "urgent business" would force Alexander Kingsley to change his plans. The man seems like the type who makes the world bend to his schedule, not the other way around. Maybe a billion-dollar deal. Maybe a supermodel girlfriend having an emergency. Maybe?—
"We've prepared the Ocean Suite for you," the attendant continues, interrupting my spiral of imagination. "It's one of our signature accommodations, though of course it's not fully finished yet."
The cart crests a small hill, and suddenly the full property spreads before us—a breathtaking expanse of modern buildings nestled among tropical foliage, all oriented toward the impossibly blue Caribbean Sea. Construction equipment dots the landscape, and workers in hard hats move about, but even inthis unfinished state, the vision is clear. This will be spectacular when completed.
"Wow," I breathe, unable to contain my awe.
"Mr. Kingsley's developments tend to have that effect," the attendant says with a note of pride. "This will be our flagship Caribbean property when it's finished."
AndI'mgoing to be designing the interiors. I feel like I need to pinch myself—certainly I must be dreaming.
The knot of anxiety tightens again. What if I can't deliver what he wants? What if my concepts clash with his vision? What if he takes one look at my first drafts and decides he's made a terrible mistake?
"Is there a problem, Ms. Montclair?" The attendant glances back at me, concern etching his features.
