Chapter 38 Jealous?
The morning light hurt.
It spilled through Holland’s blinds like an unforgiving spotlight, too sharp, too golden, cutting through the parted curtains and stabbing at her eyes. Her head throbbed, each pulse a reminder of the night before. The air smelled faintly of whiskey, of regret, of decisions she wasn’t sure she should have made.
She lay there for a moment, one arm draped across her face, trying to piece together the fragments of her memory. How much had she told Jackie? Too much. Always too much. God, what was happening to her? Hangovers weren’t her thing, especially not on a Wednesday morning.
The words replayed relentlessly in her mind, looping like a record stuck on the wrong side: I kissed a woman. Twice. Not any woman but Camille Lustrelle.
A low groan escaped her lips as she pushed herself upright, fingers tangled in her hair, tugging at the knots of confusion and headache. There was no time to linger in self-recrimination. She had a job, a title, a reputation, and the world didn’t pause for a single night of weakness. She was a woman who could corral chaos and sculpt it into order. The one no one ever caught flinching, even when the stakes were impossibly high.
She wasn’t about to start now.
By the time she reached her office, her heels clicked like a metronome, precise and steady. Each step echoed through the hallways, carrying the weight of authority. The staff greeted her with cautious smiles, sensing the same sharpness that made people step aside when she walked, the invisible force of control she carried like armor.
But the moment she stepped into her glass-walled corner office, the calm fractured.
Camille was there.
The younger woman, standing by the desk, tablet in hand, scrolling or reviewing something with her usual focused air, or at least the practiced illusion of it. This version of the Lustrelle girl unnerved Holland. Where was the stubborn, spoiled party girl she’d expected to corral, to drill responsibility and hard work into? That wasn’t the Camille Lustrelle in front of her. This Camille had upended everything in her domain. Her hair fell in soft waves, catching the light just so, and she radiated infuriating composure, as if she hadn’t spent the past week unraveling Holland’s carefully constructed control.
Holland froze for a heartbeat too long before her voice surfaced, clipped and professional.
“Morning.”
Camille looked up, lips curling faintly. “Morning, Chief.”
Just that, Chief, but the way she said it made something sharp twist low in Holland’s chest. There was always that edge in her tone, that mix of respect and provocation. Like she knew exactly how far she could push before Holland snapped. Holland stepped into her office, heels clicking with deliberate authority, and immediately sensed the shift in the air. She knew, before even looking, that Camille was behind her.
Holland’s eyes flicked down almost against her will, and she froze. Camille was wearing a white dress, slightly short for the office, and Holland knew it, but it fit her like it had been made to tempt rules and reason. She looked devastating. The crisp lines of the fabric hugged her figure perfectly, the way she moved with casual confidence made it impossible to look away, it was a small, deliberate assault on Holland’s composure.
Holland scolded herself silently. Focus. Professionalism. Not now. She cleared her throat, forcing her attention back to the conversation.
“Did you get the presentation edits done?” Holland asked, sliding her bag onto the desk, every movement deliberate.
“Yes,” Camille said, walking over to hand her the tablet. Her fingers brushed Holland’s for a fraction of a second, light, casual, but it made her pulse skip. “I sent you the revised files earlier.”
“Good.” Holland took the device, forcing herself not to notice again, though the image of Camille in that dress lingered longer than it should have. Her fingers tightened briefly around the tablet, grounding herself, reminding herself of where she stood.
Camille’s gaze lifted for half a second, steady, knowing—like she could read every thought Holland tried to shove aside. Then she smiled, polite and calm, before turning on her heel and leaving the room, the quiet click of her heels fading down the hallway.
Holland exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She set the tablet on her desk with deliberate precision, straightening her posture, forcing herself back into the armor of Chief Marketing Officer. “You can go now. I'll handle the rest,” she murmured, her voice firmer than she felt, letting the word hang in the air like a boundary she had to reestablish for herself.
The rest of the morning passed in fragments, quick meetings, phone calls, numbers on screens she barely registered. But every time Camille’s name flashed in her inbox, her focus faltered. The girl was everywhere. Quick, capable, and sharp,.too sharp.
And Holland hated that she noticed everything. The way Camille adapted so effortlessly, anticipating expectations even when Holland deliberately set them high. The casual confidence in her laugh, the quiet hum she made while scrolling through reports, the way she lingered just a second longer over details most would overlook. It all got under her skin, twisting something low in her chest that she refused to name.
By lunch, she’d convinced herself she was imagining it, the tension, the pull, the way Camille’s presence filled a room like it had a gravity of its own. By one o’clock, she stopped pretending.
_______________________
Within a thought, Holland looked up and spotted Camille walking down the corridor with a few coworkers. Her usual energy was impossible to ignore, the effortless confidence in the way she moved drawing every eye, even Holland’s. For a moment, something twisted low in her chest, and she had to remind herself to focus, to settle back behind the walls of her office.
Camille returned from lunch with a brown bag in her hand. Her lunch. And as much as Holland hated to admit it, she’d grown used to this little push-and-pull routine they had going on. Today, she was especially hungry, her stomach still uneasy from last night’s drunken escapade, she’d barely eaten anything all day, surviving on coffee alone.
Holland watched through the glass, trying not to.
A small knock sounded and Camille stepped into the office, tilting her head with that brown bag in hand. “Here’s your lunch, Chief,” she said, voice light, almost teasing.
Holland opened her mouth, ready to retort with something sharp and dismissive, but she paused, forcing herself down the edge of irritation. Instead, she said, “Thank you.” Her own voice surprised her, soft, quieter than she intended.
Camille’s eyes lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her composed expression. Then, with a small, polite smile, she said, “You’re welcome, Chief.”
An hour later, after devouring the artisanal quinoa salad, prosciutto and fig tart, and a delicate macaroon Camille had thoughtfully brought her from lunch, Holland had had enough of pretending she wasn’t watching. The flavors were sophisticated, meticulous, just like Camille herself, and it made ignoring her all the more impossible.
She pressed the intercom. “Camille. Bring in the Q2 report.”
“Yes, Chief,” came the response, smooth, teasing, and just the tiniest bit smug.
Holland leaned back in her chair, steeling herself. When Camille entered, the office seemed to shrink around her. The scent of her perfume drifted in first, floral, and too familiar. Especially after their kisses, she set a neat stack of papers on the desk, expression calm.
“Here you go,” Camille said softly.
Holland didn’t look up right away. She flipped through the first few pages, pretending to focus, letting her eyes linger on the neat lines of text, the crisp layout, anything but Camille. “You missed the updated campaign metrics on page nine.”
“I corrected them this morning,” Camille said, her tone even, controlled, perfectly measured. “They’re just not printed in this copy.”
“I see,” Holland murmured, glancing at her, just for a second too long.
Camille caught it. Of course she did. Her lips curved, barely there, that small, infuriating smile that said, I know exactly what you’re doing.
Holland shut the folder with a quiet thump, her fingers tightening briefly on the edges. “You should double-check the figures before handing them in next time. We can’t afford sloppy work.”
Camille tilted her head, unflinching. “Wasn’t sloppy, Chief. Just early.”
That calm defiance again, like a spark against Holland’s thin patience. She stood abruptly, chair scraping lightly against the floor, and walked around her desk until they were only a few feet apart. The air between them contracted, taut, every breath shared in silence.
“Early isn’t an excuse for mistakes,” she said. “We don’t operate on guesses here.”
Camille’s eyes flickered up, meeting hers directly, unyielding. “I wasn’t guessing.”
Something shifted in the space between them, thick, electric, unspoken. Holland’s heartbeat quickened despite herself.
“Need Daddy to come check on you? I could give him a call. I’m sure he’d drop everything for you,” Holland said suddenly, her tone laced with mock sweetness, sharp undercurrents threading through each word. “Can’t handle the big corporate world by yourself?”
The words hit the air like a spark.
Camille stilled, hands resting lightly on the papers she’d set down. For a moment, she didn’t move, and Holland felt the weight of that calm, deliberate presence. Then she looked up slowly, meeting Holland’s gaze with a poise that was almost dangerous, like she could see everything Holland was thinking, and wasn’t afraid to challenge it.
Her smile was soft, but her eyes were fire.
“Not really,” she said, voice steady. “I’m doing just fine, actually. But since I’m his princess…” she shrugged lightly, the motion casual and confident. “Why not? Jealous?”
Holland’s lips parted, ready to respond, but the word that came out was sharp, defensive, almost louder than intended. “No!”
Camille chuckled, the sound light, teasing, and perfectly measured. “I’m not judging if you are. Though,” she added with a sly tilt of her head, “…I could always assure you with another kiss.”
The silence that followed was electric, heavy with unspoken words, racing thoughts, and the unbearable pull of what they’d shared, and might still share. Her chest tightened, each heartbeat echoing in her ears. Her nails pressed lightly into the desk as she straightened her posture, grounding herself. “You can leave now, Ms. Lustrelle,” she said, voice controlled, though the tremor of distraction lingered beneath the surface.
Camille didn’t move right away. Her gaze lingered, tracing Holland’s expression with that uncanny precision, like she was memorizing every flicker of reaction. Then, with a faint, knowing smirk, she turned and walked out, hips swaying just enough to make it intentional, a quiet challenge in each step.
The door shut behind her, soft but final, leaving a hollow echo in the room.
Holland sat there for a long moment, breath slow and deliberate, fingers still resting against the desk. She could still feel the weight of that smirk, the memory of the word jealous hanging in the air, a spark she couldn’t quite shake, a reminder of how much control she’d thought she had—and how quickly it slipped away.
She turned toward the window, staring out at the city skyline, her reflection staring back, composed, professional, but with something wild flickering beneath the surface.
She hated that Camille got under her skin, the way she moved, the inflection in her voice, the quiet confidence that made even Holland’s careful control feel inadequate. It twisted something low in her chest that she refused to name. But beneath it, something betrayed Holland, and her carefully measured control slipping despite her best efforts.
And she hated most of all that, deep down, she didn’t really hate it. She was starting to like this. Enjoy this. Why? That was beyond her.
She’d already crossed something invisible, not in words, not even in touch, but in intent. The unspoken charge between them had shifted, subtle but undeniable. And she knew Camille felt it too. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so sure where her own limits really were anymore.