Chapter 35 She wouldn't fight it
Camille’s fingers hovered over the keys, then stilled. The file in front of her blurred, letters smearing into one another as if the screen had melted. Now that she had tasted Holland Larson twice, she didn’t know how she would make herself stop wanting more. The first kiss had been a shock. The second had been a choice, needy, hot, and completely theirs. The thought of Holland’s mouth and the way it had cut into her, still sat heavy under her ribs. Pulsing like a small live thing, demanding, and bright.
Holland was married. Sure. She had shaken Oliver Larson’s hand once, seen the man up close when he’d come to collect his wife for dinner. He had been smug, practiced, and smiling just enough to look attentive but not enough to seem real. He carried himself like a man who believed the part of “good husband” was something you wore, like a pressed suit, not something you lived.
She had watched the couple, and it was evident what was happening. Holland Larson was too quiet, too aloof with her husband, like she was moving through a room already mapped out for her. There was no ease, no spark, nothing that breathed. Their marriage looked intact from the outside, but to Camille, it felt hollow, the way a house might still stand after the foundation had cracked.
And that hollowness tempted her. It made the danger taste sharper. It made her think she could press her hand to one seam in Holland’s life and feel it split open.
Camille knew herself. Once her mind fixed on something, there was no unhooking it. Obsession was a current she didn’t fight, she let it pull. And now it was Holland Larson lodged under her skin, the taste of the older woman still lingering, impossible to rinse out. Her sights were now locked on the marketing chief.
She liked the way the chief moved through a room with composure that wasn’t just confidence but command. Holland Larson wore authority like armor, and she was reckless enough to want the chink in it, longed to press her fingers against the weak seam. She wanted to see what cracked when control gave way.
The meeting room carried the stale tang of coffee and the dry scent of paper, a mix Camille was starting to associate with these briefings. Pale light cut through the high windows, striping the long table where folders and tablets crowded the surface. At the front, Holland Larson stood, her folder open, her voice steady and deliberate as she guided the room through her presentation. The other department heads leaned forward, their devices glowing, absorbing every word.
Camille’s laptop glowed in front of her, the cursor blinking expectantly over a few half-typed lines. Her fingers hovered above the keys, then stilled. Every few seconds, she tried to type, only to let her thoughts drift again. Her eyes traced the line of Holland’s chin, the poised lift of her shoulders, the calm precision in every gesture. Control seemed woven into her very posture.
A colleague shifted beside her, clearing their throat, and Camille jumped, fingers snapping to the keyboard. She forced a few notes out, but her gaze kept finding Holland, irresistibly drawn to the quiet command that filled the room.
“Promotions will roll out in three stages,” the chief continued, voice even and clear. “Phase one is awareness, digital first. We are finalizing on that. Increasing the spend on programmatic video across our key markets. Phase two moves into targeted outreach, influencers and tailored content for bridal and high-fashion verticals. Phase three, to lead into the launch, will be experiential. Pop-up events in London and Milan, timed with our digital crescendo, with VIP previews for key clients.” She paused, thumb tracing the edge of the folder. “The creative will stay minimal. Jewelry speaks for itself. We will not over-direct. We will let the product breathe. Questions.”
Camille tried to type, her fingers tapping out a few dutiful lines on the laptop, but the cadence of her boss’ voice broke her focus every time. For each crisp sentence Holland Larson delivered about markets and margins, Camille’s thoughts betrayed her, flashing not to presentation or strategy but to the chief’s hand braced against her jaw, the warm rush of breath between them, and the press of lips she could still taste days later.
Holland Larson’s face was calm, composed, and her every word measured. She was currently explaining the layout, her hands moving with the same precision, straight, sure, leaving no room for doubt. The team nodded along as numbers and dates were tossed out targets, the launch coming faster than expected. The chief’s confidence settled over the room like fact. For Camille, it was harder to ignore, the steady power in Holland’s voice made her pulse race, and heat creeping up the back of her neck.
Camille let out a slow sigh, her thoughts slipping back to the woman at the head of the room. Holland Larson’s voice carried steady through the space, but Camille wasn’t listening to the strategy anymore. She was caught on the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her mouth, the quiet weight in every word she spoke. A faint smile tugged at Camille’s lips, unbidden, soft and secret.
The lull came so suddenly that she didn’t notice at first, the scrape of a chair quieted, the shuffling of papers stilled, the murmur of agreement faded. Silence held, stretching thin across the room. That was when she felt it, eyes. Dozens of them.
Her stomach dropped. Heat flared fast across her cheeks as she blinked and realized she had been staring. Staring too openly, too long. At her. Mortification prickled at her skin. Every face around the table was turned her way, a gallery of expressions that said everything she didn’t want spoken aloud. They knew. Or worse, they thought they knew.
Her father’s gaze anchored her from the head of the table. His profile was sharp, and his expression unreadable in the way only he could manage. His eyes held longer than they should have, long enough to feel like he could see straight through her. The weight of it pressed hard against her chest, heavier than any reprimand. She forced a small, tight smile, her lips barely moving as she shaped the words, I’m fine.
Still, Camille felt their eyes on her, the silent labels stacking up, assistant, young and restless, the owner’s daughter with too much power and favor. The weight of those judgments pressed in from all sides, familiar and unrelenting. They had followed her for years, whispered behind doors, exchanged in glances that lingered too long. She had learned to live with them. To outgrow them. She didn’t care what they thought.
Camille lifted her chin and straightened in her seat, spine aligning as if answering a challenge only she could feel. Something rose in her chest, hot and insistent, a deep sense of resolve. She belonged here, just like her brothers. If there was anything left to prove, it would be on her own terms, not theirs.
Her attention drifted to the front of the room. To Holland Larson.
The chief had kept her distance ever since that second kiss, retreating behind armor made of measured replies and a voice that always tightened into warning every time they expose. Every attempt Camille made to close the space, a light joke, a carefully angled question, was met with resistance. The chief's aswers coming quick and final, drawn taut, and always leaving nothing behind them. Not even a single reminiscence of them falling again.
Days passed, and the lapse, that reckless moment Camille had forced into existence, was never acknowledged. Holland had starved it of air, smothered it beneath silence, as though denying it long enough might make it dissolve. But Camille felt it anyway. The cold lived between them now, thin and fragile, waiting. For most, that silence would have been an ending. A boundary drawn. A sign to step back and let go.
But she was not most. She was Camille Lustrelle
To her, the space between them was not a wall. It was an invitation. A distance she intended to cross. She'd do it. She'd do it over, and over again.