Chapter 36 Bit by bit
Camille watched carefully, her attention lingering on the subtle ways the chief carried strain through her body. The way her shoulders drew taut whenever someone pressed too hard on logistics. The faint line that appeared at her brow when a department head floated yet another co-branding tie-in. And then there was the smile, polished and practiced, offered at the right moments, convincing enough for the room but never quite reaching her eyes.
It was the smallest tell, a barely-there mark at the corner of her mouth, and Camille found herself returning to it again and again. That trace of control Holland Larson offered to everyone else, yet never fully gave, stirred something restless inside her. It deepened the pull. It gave her resolve weight and direction. A trait, she found quite alluring
The chief’s voice cut through the boardroom air, clean and exact. “We just need a tighter timeline for influencer outreach. I don’t want to chase after impressions that don’t convert. We need results, not vanity.”
Her hands folded neatly before her, posture composed and assured. She continued without pause. “My team will coordinate with PR. My assistant, Ms. Lustrelle, amend the influencer list for phase two and filter for conversion potential. Send me your suggested prices for the VIP previews by end of day Friday. Any questions?”
Camille jolted at the sound of her name, fingers moving at once to capture the directive. Her throat tightened, dry, and she lifted her gaze despite herself. Holland’s eyes met hers, firm and unwavering, holding her there. Yes. Her. The weight of that acknowledgment settled in her chest, grounding her. She could do this.
She held the chief’s gaze and offered a restrained smile. None came back. There was no softness there, only focus honed to an edge that refused familiarity. The impact of it traveled straight down Camille’s spine, a dangerous thrill she masked behind composure. Civil. Controlled. Holland’s expression didn’t yield. It set, resolute, like something left to harden in the cold.
The meeting moved on, slides clicking in rhythm, forecasts and endorsements filling the air. Camille kept her fingers moving, notes forming beneath them in quick, precise strokes. Each line she captured felt like something to cling to, a small tether holding her in place while her thoughts drifted dangerously close to the edge. Her focus slipped and returned in uneven waves, refusing to settle.
An hour later, the meeting broke apart. Chairs scraped back as people stood, voices lifting into polite thanks and overlapping questions. Several department heads converged on Holland at once, papers in hand, eager for her attention. She absorbed them effortlessly, responding without pause, her posture composed, her presence filling the space as naturally as breath.
Camille remained seated, laptop still open before her, the cursor blinking at the end of her notes. Her fingers hovered above the keys, unmoving. She should have closed the file, should have gathered her things and followed the others out, but her body didn’t respond. Her gaze kept drifting back to Holland, again and again, drawn to the quiet authority in the way she stood, the ease with which she commanded attention. The room thinned, voices fading, footsteps retreating, yet Camille stayed where she was, caught in place, unable to look away.
She lifted her head as her father approached, his presence shaping the silence left behind. Camille rose quickly, straightening as she met his gaze.
“Hi, Daddy… sorry, hello, Mr. Lustrelle,” she said, the correction coming a beat too late.
The slip didn’t go unnoticed. She saw it in the glimmer in his eyes, the softened expression, the laughter he didn’t quite let surface. His hand rested lightly at the small of her back, a familiar touch that carried authority and reassurance in equal measure.
“Good job today, princess,” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for her.
She watched his gaze drift toward Holland, then flick back to her, their eyes meeting for the briefest instant. The look he gave her did not linger long enough to be named. Approval, perhaps. Or reverence. Camille couldn’t separate one from the other. Whatever it was, it settled low in her chest, heavy and warm all at once, making her draw a quieter breath.
“She’s molding you well, Camille.”
The words landed with more weight than he seemed to intend. Camille nodded, the movement small but certain. “Yes,” she said, hearing the truth of it as she spoke. “She really is.”
Her hand closed briefly at his waist, a quick squeeze that said more than the exchange had allowed. Then she stepped back, already turning, her attention pulled forward as her chief moved away. Camille fell into step without hesitation.
She lengthened her stride until she was walking beside Holland. “What would you like for lunch today, Chief?” Her voice stayed light, measured, carrying just enough presence to ensure it couldn’t be ignored.
Holland released a quiet breath, more felt than heard. She kept moving, eyes forward, shoulders squared, but her reply came tight and controlled. “Whatever you decide, Ms. Lustrelle.”
Camille felt the corner of her mouth lift before she could stop it. There it was. A pause where there usually wasn’t one. A concession, however small. Holland Larson had yielded a choice, and the significance of it hummed beneath Camille’s skin. If persistence over something as mundane as meals led to moments like this, then the effort had been worth it. Skipped lunches were a habit Camille had already learned to intercept, no matter how stubborn the resistance.
“Noted,” she murmured.
Holland continued on toward her office, pace brisk, as though forward motion alone could put distance between herself and the exchange. Camille watched the line of her back, the tension carried there, the way retreat came dressed as purpose. She tilted her head slightly, curiosity stirring as she followed. Whatever thoughts Holland was fleeing, whatever pressure drove her onward, Camille was certain of one thing. She would meet it. Slowly, deliberately, she would break her walls down, bit by bit.
Setting her things down, Camille let her gaze fall to her hands, noting the faint tremor she hadn’t yet mastered. Resolve gathered in her chest, dense and unyielding. She refused to retreat from this. She would press further. She would locate every fracture in Holland Larson’s armor, peel back the chill, and uncover exactly what the woman guarded with such discipline.
Her eyes lifted again. At the far end of the office, Holland Larson stood near the glass wall, composed and exacting, the light tracing the clean line of her shoulders. Their gazes locked for a single breath. Green, bright as cut glass, pierced the space between them, carrying a warning that seared rather than spoke. Camille felt it lodge deep, a cool rush that traveled straight through her. The space between them felt altered, drawn taut, despite the glass, despite the rules hanging thick in the air.
A quiet sound broke the moment. “Hey, Camille,” Klaus said as he stepped closer to her desk, his polished smile settling into place like something practiced. “How about lunch together? There’s a new spot that just opened. Thought you might enjoy it.”
The offer lingered, easy on the surface, but Camille didn’t answer right away. Her attention slipped back to Holland, who had already turned away, moving with that same controlled precision that demanded notice even in retreat. The pull remained, insistent and alive, urging her forward. Camille held herself still long enough to breathe, knowing that without the pause, she might cross a line she wasn’t ready to explain.
She gave Klaus his answer at last. “Sure thing,” she said, her voice even, carefully held. A faint smile touched her mouth, delicate enough to pass, strong enough to mask the tension humming beneath her skin. Rising from her chair, she sent one final look toward the chief, taking her in as she disappeared behind glass and authority. This was not an ending. It was a beginning. Whatever waited beyond that wall, Camille was already moving toward it, and she had no intention of stopping now.