Chapter 20 Daydreaming about your boss
The night had only grown louder. Club Konnekt was overflowing, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, lights slicing across moving limbs, casting everything in pulses of neon. From below, the music pounded like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the floor into Camille’s chest. But she and her friends weren’t in the chaos. They were tucked upstairs, in the lounge, separated by velvet ropes, soundproofed glass, and a waiter who hovered with bottles of champagne, top-shelf vodka, and an array of drinks they hadn’t even asked for.
The space felt insulated from the chaos below. Plush leather couches circled a glowing glass table, reflecting the low golden light. Glasses shimmered, some empty, some half-finished, their contents gleaming like liquid jewels. The smell of alcohol—sweet, bitter, intoxicating—mingled with the faint scent of perfume and cologne, forming a heady mix that seemed to make the air hum.
Camille leaned back, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks. She was warm with the alcohol and the heat of the room, a tingling buzz that made the night feel reckless and light. The others were loud, drunk in varying degrees, shouting over each other, voices layered atop the persistent beat from below.
Zain tilted his glass at her, smirking. “Cammy, you are the worst dancer in this group.”
“That’s a lie! She's... she's way better than you ” Ava cut in sluggishly as she slid back onto the couch with a tray of fresh shots balanced in her hands. She wobbled but recovered, laughter spilling from her like a melody. “You just can’t keep up.”
"That's right, Ava," Camille snorted, sitting up to grab one. “Tell him. Zain, I could dance circles around you all.”
“Not anymore,” Belle teased, nudging her shoulder lightly. “You’re too busy these days to throw it down on the dance floor being an assistant and all, while... while also daydreaming about your boss.”
The words landed like sparks. For a second, the group froze, then broke into wide grins.
Camille groaned and covered her face with both hands, hiding the heat spreading across her cheeks. “Why do you always bring her up?”
“Because it’s funny,” Luca said smoothly, lounging with an arm draped over the back of the couch. The diamond watch on his wrist caught the light as he lifted his glass. “And because you’re obsessed.”
“I am not obsessed!” Camille protested, though her laughter undercut the denial. She waved them off, though her hands trembled slightly. “She’s just… complicated.”
“That’s one word for it,” Ava said, taking a slow sip from her champagne flute, eyes glinting knowingly.
Zain whistled low, tilting his head as if savoring a private joke. “Camille Lustrelle, living in a cliché office drama.”
Camille grabbed the shot in front of her and downed it, ignoring the burn sliding down her throat. Her cheeks ached from smiling too much.
The table erupted again, voices rising over the soft hum of the private lounge and the pounding music below. Belle wiped at the corner of her eye, shaking her head with a grin. “Okay, but seriously, if... if she walked in right now, looking for you… what would you even say?”
“Nothing,” Camille said too quickly. That was exactly what Holland wouldn't do, she would never come looking for her. In a club of all places.
“Liar,” Zain shot back instantly, eyes glinting.
“She’d choke,” Ava added with a wicked grin, leaning forward.
“I would not choke!” Camille said, laughter rising and falling with her indignation. She smacked the table lightly, as if to punctuate her point.
“You so would,” Luca said, leaning in, a daring curve to his smirk. “Actually, you know what? Let’s test it. Call her.”
The table went quiet.
Camille blinked, heart stuttering. “What?”
“Call her,” Luca repeated, the words heavy with mischief. “Right now. Say something. Anything.”
“No way,” she said, shaking her head, hands tightening around her glass. “That’s insane.”
“Exactly,” Belle said, eyes glittering as she leaned closer. “Which is why you have to do it.”
Ava clapped, half-standing in excitement. “Yes! Do it, Cammy. Please.”
Camille yanked her phone back from the table where Ava had reached for it, clutching it to her chest. Her pulse thrummed violently, louder than the bass from below. “You’re insane. I’d never…”
“You’re scared,” Luca said casually, eyes locked on hers.
“I’m not scared,” she shot back instantly.
“Then prove it,” he said, grin tugging at his mouth, as if daring her with his presence alone.
The others joined in, voices rising in a chant, slapping the table in rhythm with the music from the floor: “Do it, do it, do it…”
Camille’s fingers itched over the phone. Her head spun. Her cheeks burned, and Holland’s name glowed in her contacts, bright and mocking. She could back out. She should back out. But the eager eyes of her friends bore into her, expectant and amused.
Groaning, she dragged her hands down her face. “You’re all going to hell for this.”
“Front row seats,” Belle laughed, raising her glass.
Camille drew a shaky breath. Her thumb hovered over the screen, then she pressed it before thinking.
The ringing tone cut through the din, clear and piercing in her ear.
Her friends shrieked, hands slapping the table, laughter muffled by excitement, eyes wide.
One ring. Two rings.
Her heart raced faster than the bass thudding through the lounge. Every thrum in her chest matched the music, a chaotic rhythm that left her head spinning.
“Hello, Holland Larson speaking,” came the composed voice, smooth and even. For a few frozen seconds, Camille’s world contracted, focus narrowing until everything else blurred.
“Hollaaand!” Zain hollered behind her, drunk and gleeful. Camille yanked the phone away from her ear, stepping out from behind the cheering friends, shielding herself from the pressure.
“Ms. Lustrelle,” her boss began, voice clipped and cool, control threading through each word.
Camille froze. The world shrank. The bass dulled. The laughter around her faded into muted background noise. Only Holland’s voice remained, crisp and demanding attention. Every second stretched, measured, deliberate.
She swallowed hard. Her lips parted. Words hovered, trembling just out of reach, suspended between fear and fascination. Her fingers gripped the phone tighter. Her chest felt constricted, heat climbing her neck, radiating into her face. What could she say? How could she speak when the very sound of Holland’s voice seemed to press against her ribcage?
The club continued around her, oblivious. Drinks clinked, laughter continued, but she existed in a bubble, suspended in the tension between herself and the voice on the other end.
She wanted to speak, but her mind refused to form the sentences. Every syllable felt heavy, as though saying them would break the fragile balance between control and recklessness that Holland embodied.
She could feel her pulse in her throat, her ears buzzing in tandem with the music. A laugh bubbled, choked off, somewhere deep in her chest. The name on the screen seemed to pulse, an unrelenting reminder that she was caught, exposed in front of herself and the world.
Camille’s thumb hovered, hovering, trembling slightly, as she inhaled, trying to summon the courage. Words formed, dissolved, then formed again, impossible to shape. What did one say to someone who made them feel both small and infinite in the same instant?
The bass of the club, the shouts of friends, the clinking of glasses, they all existed, but only faintly, as if filtered through a thick fog. Holland’s voice remained crisp, precise, cutting through everything. And Camille realized she couldn’t turn away, couldn’t hide, couldn’t pretend that this was just another night, another game.
The seconds stretched, the world slowed, the ringing continued. And yet, Camille couldn’t speak.
Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. The heat at her neck flared. Her fingers trembled, gripping the phone, waiting for the courage she didn’t yet have. Holland waited too, the quiet authority in her words demanding a response, holding her captive with a single line of greeting.
Camille exhaled, finally. Not because she had an answer, but because the impossible weight of the moment settled on her. The laughter, the friends, the alcohol, all of it fell away. It was just her, the phone, and the woman on the other end.
And Camille understood something she hadn’t wanted to admit yet, this was no longer a game. Not for her.