The comment felt like an endorsement of her status disguised as flattery. Camille’s chest tightened further, the familiar gilded cage walls pressing closer. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to powder my nose.”
She practically fled toward the restrooms, Serena’s heels clicking behind her in solidarity. The ladies’ lounge provided blessed sanctuary—marble and mirrors and blissful silence away from the performance.
“Well?” Serena demanded the moment the door closed. “Verdict?”
Camille sagged against the vanity, her reflection showing cracks in the perfect facade. “He’s everything they want. Handsome, successful, appropriately ambitious.”
“But?”
“But he looked at me like I was a particularly valuable acquisition he intended to purchase.” The words tumbled out, relief and frustration tangled together. “God, Serena, what’s wrong with me? He’s perfect. On paper, he’s exactly what any rational woman would want.”
“Since when are you rational about anything that matters?” Serena’s dimpled smile softened her bluntness. “Your instincts are usually spot-on, even when they’re inconvenient.”
“My instincts led me to a two-year relationship with Carter, and we both know how that ended.”
“Your instincts about Carter were right too. He was a good guy initially. You just ignored the glaring red flags after he met Veronica because you wanted so desperately to believe in the fairy tale romance you thought you guys had.”
Camille stared at her reflection, seeing past the perfect makeup to the uncertainty beneath. At thirty-five, she should know what she wanted or at least should have outgrown this desperate longing for something real in a world built on beautiful facades. Yet here she stood, running from another perfectly suitable man because her heart refused to cooperate with logic.
“What if my current life of running my mother’s charity foundation and trying to hook up with Damian is good enough?” she whispered. “Maybe I’m just too emotionally damaged to appreciate what’s right in front of me?”
“Or,” Serena said firmly, “what if you’re finally ready to stop settling for what looks good and start demanding what feels right?”
The restroom’s marble sanctuary felt precious and fragile when an unexpected voice cut through their conversation.
“Forgive the intrusion, but I simply had to catch you alone.”
Camille turned from the gilded mirror to find a petite woman in an exquisite purple Chanel pantsuit, her white hair styled in a perfect bob. Her blue eyes sparkled with an intelligence that felt almost supernatural in its perceptiveness.
“I’m Gerri Wilder,” the woman continued, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “And you, my dear, are far more interesting than that dreadful conversation you just escaped.”
Serena’s eyebrows shot up, but Camille found herself oddly disarmed by this stranger’s warmth. Something about Gerri felt less like an encounter and more like being quietly understood by someone who saw straight through the polished veneer to the restless soul beneath.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” Camille managed, though her usual social armor felt suddenly unnecessary.
“Not yet, but I know you.” Gerri’s smile carried secrets and possibilities. “Your blog on architectural innovation is absolutely fascinating. The piece on sustainable luxury development? Brilliant insights that most men in the field completely overlook.”
The words hit Camille unexpectedly hard. Her anonymous blog—the one place where she allowed her true passion to breathe, where she analyzed design trends and critiqued developments under a carefully neutral pseudonym—was supposed to be invisible. A hobby hidden from her parents’ disapproving gaze.
“How did you?—”
“Your perspective on spatial dynamics in urban planning could revolutionize how developers approach community integration,” Gerri continued, as if Camille’s architectural degree wasn’t ancient history gathering dust in her parents’expectations. “Which brings me to why I’m here. I have an opportunity that might interest you.”
Camille’s chest tightened with that familiar mixture of hope and terror that came whenever someone glimpsed her authentic desires. “I’m listening.”
“An executive assistant position with Drake Holdings. Leander Drake specifically requested someone with architectural insight to help with his development projects.”
The name hit Camille like electricity. She’d been following Leander Drake’s work for months through her blog research—his innovative approach to sustainable luxury and his ability to create spaces that felt both opulent and human. She’d studied his projects with the intensity of a scholar analyzing masterpieces, wondering if she’d ever have the courage to reach out, to somehow connect with someone who seemed to understand architecture as art rather than mere construction.
“You’re talking about the Leander Drake,” Camille breathed, her carefully maintained composure cracking. “The same Leander Drake who designed the Meridian Complex?”
“The very one. Gorgeous man, brilliant mind, and absolutely hopeless at finding qualified assistants who understand both the business and creative sides of development.” Gerri’s eyes twinkled with something that might have been matchmaking mischief. “You’d be perfect for the job.”
Serena leaned forward, her hazel eyes sharp with interest. “This sounds too good to be true.”
“I’m hardly qualified,” Camille protested, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “I have a degree in architecture, yes, but my parents never wanted me to pursue it professionally. They saw it as a hobby, not a career. I’ve been running my mother’s charity foundation and—” She gestured helplessly at her gown, at the life she’d been performing for decades. “I’msupposed to be focusing on finding a husband and settling down. Being a good trophy wife like my mother.”
The bitterness in her voice surprised even her, but Gerri’s expression remained warmly encouraging rather than judgmental.
