Chapter 40 Stop thinking about her
The room was dim, wrapped in a silence that felt heavy, like it was pressing in from all sides. The only light came from the television a few feet away, its pale glow flickering against the walls. The volume was turned low, the muffled hum of dialogue barely breaking through the stillness. Holland sat propped against the headboard, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, gaze fixed on the screen in front of her.
Two women filled the frame, kissing far too sensually.
Her breath caught before she realized it. She watched, motionless, as their hands found each other, fingers locking, the music swelling in the background like a cruel reminder of something she’d tried all day to forget. Her stomach tightened. The scene felt too real, too close.
The intense scene pulled her back, right back to her office. To that one charged moment she had been replaying in her mind since it happened. Camille’s face, the look in her eyes, the air between them stretching too thin, too dangerous, and then, the kiss.
Her pulse thudded at the memory.
No. She hadn’t just let it happen. She had kissed back.
The realization still hit her like a jolt. The memory burned behind her eyes, sharp, electric. Her lips tingled at the thought, her body remembering before her mind could stop it. She had kissed Camille Lustrelle, her assistant, and she had liked it.
A little too much.
“Damn it,” she muttered, the words slipping out rough and quiet. She dragged a hand down her face, pressing her palm against her mouth as if she could erase the feeling.
The room stayed still, the faint glow from the TV washing her in restless light. Holland’s gaze dropped to her lap, to the sheets gathered around her knees. Her shoulders tensed, a sigh trembling loose from her chest. The images from the show blurred on the screen now, forgotten. All she could see was Camille leaning in with that fire in her eyes.
She didn’t want to remember. And yet, she couldn’t stop.
The Lustrelle girl was a temptress, there was no other word for it. Holland hated herself for even thinking that, but what else could she call her? Every smile, every sidelong glance, every softly spoken word from Camille was a spark waiting to catch. She was trouble wrapped in silk, confidence stitched into every move she made. And Holland could feel herself coming undone, one careful thread at a time.
Her jaw tightened. She shouldn’t have kissed her. She shouldn’t even be thinking about her. But before reason could talk her down, her hand moved on its own.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, cold light brushing against her face. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitating, betraying her, and then typed: Camille Lustrelle.
The results loaded instantly.
Images. Articles. Headlines.
She stared as the screen filled with Camille’s world, bright lights, camera flashes, laughter frozen in perfect stills. There she was, radiant on red carpets, leaning into conversations with people whose names filled magazine covers. There she was at charity galas, at launches, smiling beside faces Holland had only seen from a distance. Every picture was a reminder of how far apart their worlds really were.
Holland scrolled slower, her throat tightening with something sharp and stupid she didn’t want to name. This was Camille’s life easy, charm, endless company, and eyes always on her. And yet Holland, of all people, was the one lying here in the dark, replaying a kiss that shouldn’t have happened.
A thought hit her, quick and cruel. God. Was she just another passing phase?
A fleeting thrill for a woman like Camille Lustrelle, a challenge, a game, something to chase until she got bored? Was Camille Lustrelle playing some game? Testing her limits for fun?
Her chest burned with a strange mix of irritation and disbelief. She locked her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Ridiculous,” Holland muttered, though even she didn’t believe it. Her jaw tightened. “Don’t be stupid,” she added under her breath, but the words fell flat in the quiet room. The thought lingered anyway, ugly, heavy, refusing to let go.
With a sharp flick of her wrist, she tossed the phone onto the bed. It bounced once, then landed face down, still and accusing.
Irritation crawled up her chest like heat. It wasn’t fair. She knew Camille better than that, at least, she thought she did. The woman she saw every day in the office wasn’t the same one plastered across those photos and headlines. There, Camille looked untouchable, all glitter and charm, wild and effortless. But here, here she was sharp, attentive, sometimes even shy.
Holland had watched her fight through long hours, handle pressure, argue with quiet fire, stay late when everyone else had gone home. She’d seen her care. That wasn’t the woman in the headlines. That was someone real. Someone different.
Holland exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together until they thinned into a line. “Enough,” she whispered. “Stop thinking about her.”
Her gaze drifted to the small wine rack in the corner of the room. A single glass wouldn’t hurt, or two, maybe. For a moment, she could almost taste it, the sharp, dark sweetness that always managed to quiet the noise in her head. Her hand twitched slightly, but she stopped herself. She shut her eyes and drew in a steady breath.
No. Not tonight.
Not after last night.
The memory made her stomach turn. The sound of her own loud laughter, echoed faintly in her mind. It hadn’t been real laughter. It was the kind that tried too hard to cover up everything else. She still remembered the look on Oliver’s face when he’d shown up at the bar, concern barely hidden under irritation. God, what had she even said to him? The thought made her throat tighten. She didn’t want to remember.
A soft knock broke through her thoughts and Holland froze, her pulse quickening before she could stop it. Two more taps followed, slower this time, like whoever stood there was unsure whether to disturb her. She didn’t need to guess.
Of course. Speak of the devil.
She heard the doorknob turn, the faint click followed by the soft creak of hinges giving way. At the sound, Holland shifted quickly, her body sinking down into the mattress against the fortress of fluffy pillows. Light footsteps crossed the carpet, careful, measured, the kind that came from someone trying not to intrude.
The mattress dipped beside her. The air shifted with the warmth of another presence. For a brief second, she felt it, a hand hovering just above her shoulder, hesitant, unsure if it was welcome. It lingered there, searching for permission, before retreating. Holland's eyes stayed shut. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, the familiar weight of it a small shield as she pretended to be asleep.
“Honey,” Oliver’s voice came softly, cautious, threaded with patience he’d rehearsed too many times. “I know you’ve barely eaten all day.”
She stayed still. Her breathing was steady, slow, deliberate, every inhale a quiet act of defiance.
“I made something us simple. Pasta. You like that.” He paused, as if listening for any sign she’d heard him. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but… come out for a bit, yeah?”
Nothing. Only the faint hum of the television filled the silence between them.
He let out a small sigh, the sound carrying both fatigue and affection. “You don’t have to keep shutting me out, you know,” he said, softer now. “I’m not here to fight.”
Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t move. Not a word.
Oliver’s voice softened again, the weight of concern threading through. “I’ll leave your meal in the oven, okay? It’ll stay warm.”
The bed shifted as he stood. She heard the faint creak of the floorboards, the quiet pause by the door, the sigh he tried to hide before leaving the room. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was heavier than before, as if the air itself had given up trying to comfort her.
Holland opened her eyes slowly, staring at the empty spot where he had sat. The dent in the blanket, the faint lingering warmth, it all made her chest ache in that familiar, dull way.
Why he kept trying, she’d never understand. Maybe he still hoped there was something left between them worth saving. Maybe he still loved her. But she couldn’t meet him halfway, not anymore.
Her heart felt tired. She was tired.
Their marriage had become something like an echo, familiar but hollow. They both lived inside the distance now, pretending it was fine because pretending was easier. She was content with that. A marriage on paper was enough. She didn’t need affection, or effort, or reminders of what used to be.
And yet… a thought crept in quietly, unwelcome.
Was that why she had fallen for Camille’s allure? Was it because she had gone so long without being touched, without feeling wanted, not as a duty or an obligation, but with real desire? Had she been so starved for warmth that even a single spark had been enough to undo her?
Her throat tightened. She pressed a hand against her chest, as if she could steady the ache there.
Maybe it wasn’t just Camille’s charm that had drawn her in. Maybe it was everything she’d been missing—attention, affection, the reminder that she was still capable of being wanted. The thought sat heavy in her chest, sharp and humbling. And that realization stung more than she wanted to admit.
Her gaze drifted back to the TV, where the two women still held each other on screen, their faces open and certain, unashamed. The camera lingered on their hands, fingers tangled with quiet confidence.
Something inside her twisted again, slow and deep.
Holland exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. She reached for the remote and pressed the button without looking. The screen went black, taking the last bit of light with it. The room fell into silence thick, familiar, and lonely. Leaning back against the pillows, Holland's eyes tracing the ceiling in the dim light. Sleep tugged at her edges but refused to take her. Her thoughts wouldn’t still.
Camille’s face surfaced again in the dark, her grin, the teasing lilt in her voice, the way she’d said, “Get well rested, Chief,” like it was both a command and a dare.
“Damn her,” Holland muttered under her breath, turning onto her side.
She clutched the pillow tighter, searching for comfort that wasn’t there. The sheets were warm, but they couldn’t quiet the truth pressing against her ribs, she was already too far gone. And what scared her most wasn’t how deep she’d fallen. It was how much she didn’t want to stop.