Chapter 15
Camille
The sauce bubbles on the stove, tomato-red and fragrant with garlic and basil.
I stir it mechanically, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that's recently become my unwanted companion.
Izzy chatters beside me, chopping onions with theatrical sniffles, completely unaware that every whiff of the food we're preparing makes my stomach clench in silent rebellion.
"I swear, these onions are out for blood," Izzy complains, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. "You're lucky you got stirring duty."
I force a smile, focusing on the rhythmic motion of the wooden spoon through the thick sauce. "Trade you?"
"Not a chance." She scrapes the onions into a sizzling pan. "So, you still feeling like crap?"
I shrug, trying for nonchalance. "Just tired. Work's been insane with the Vale and Fairfax projects."
"Uh-huh." Izzy gives me a sidelong glance. "And it has nothing to do with the fact that you've been looking green around the gills for way too long now?"
"It's nothing," I insist, though the persistent nausea suggests otherwise. "Probably just a stubborn bug."
The truth is, I don't know what's wrong with me. Some days I wake up feeling fine, energetic even. Other days—like today—the mere thought of food makes my stomach turn. It comes in waves, unpredictable and inconvenient, especially during client meetings.
Izzy adds the garlic to the pan, and the sharp scent hits me like a punch. My stomach lurches. I set the spoon down carefully and take a small step back from the stove, breathing through my mouth.
"You okay?" Izzy asks, her teasing tone shifting to concern.
"Yeah, just..." I swallow hard. "The smell is a bit strong."
She studies me for a moment, her expression turning speculative. "You know, my cousin was like that. Couldn't stand the smell of cooking onions or garlic. Turned out she was pregnant."
The word lands between us like a lead balloon. Pregnant. The suggestion freezes me in place, my hand still outstretched toward the abandoned spoon.
No.
No, that's not possible. Except...
My mind races back to Antigua, to Alexander, to that night in the hot tub when he came inside me. To the morning after, when we did it again. The times we didn't use protection because I told him I tracked my cycle.
But cycles can be unpredictable. Stress can throw them off. Travel can throw them off.
"Cami?" Izzy's voice seems to come from far away. "I was just joking around."
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My period. When was my last period? Before Antigua, certainly. And it's been... I mentally count the days, then count again, desperately hoping I've made a mistake.
I haven't. I'm late. Very late.
"Holy shit," Izzy whispers, reading the panic on my face. "You think you might be?"
I clutch the counter edge, suddenly dizzy. "I don't know. I can't be. We were careful... mostly."
"Mostly?" Izzy raises her eyebrows.
The room feels too warm, too small. "I need to know. Now."
Izzy doesn't hesitate. She turns off both burners with quick movements. "Dinner can wait. Let's go."
Ten minutes later, we're standing in the feminine care aisle of the nearest drugstore, staring at a bewildering array of pregnancy tests. My hands shake as I reach for one, then another, reading the packages with increasing desperation.
"Which one is most accurate?" I whisper, though there's no one nearby to overhear.
"Get a few different brands," Izzy suggests, already grabbing boxes. "Cover all the bases."
I nod numbly, adding another test to our growing collection. The cashier gives us a knowing look as she rings up our purchases—five pregnancy tests and a chocolate bar that Izzy threw in at the last second. "For moral support," she explained.
The walk back to my apartment passes in a blur. My mind races with possibilities, none of which I'm prepared to face. A baby. Alexander's baby. A tiny life growing inside me while the man who helped create it is probably sitting in his corner office, not giving me a second thought.
"I can't do this," I mutter as we climb the stairs to my apartment.
"You can," Izzy says firmly. "No matter what those tests say, you can handle it."
In my bathroom, I tear open the first package with trembling fingers. Izzy perches on the edge of the bathtub, unwrapping the chocolate.
"You want me to step out?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Stay. Please."
She nods, breaking off a piece of chocolate and offering it to me. I wave it away, my stomach churning for reasons that now seem terrifyingly clear.
The first test is simple enough—pee on the stick, wait three minutes. I follow the instructions mechanically, then set the test on the counter and sink down onto the closed toilet lid.
"Now we wait," I say, determined to hold it together.
Izzy checks her phone. "Want me to set a timer?"
"No need. I'll be counting every second anyway."
The bathroom falls silent except for the soft hum of the ventilation fan.
I stare at the little plastic stick, willing it to show just one line.
One line means relief. One line means my life stays on its current course.
One line means I don't have to figure out how to be a single mother at twenty-four with a career just starting to take off.
Izzy breaks the silence. "Whatever happens, I'm here. You know that, right?"
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
"Has enough time passed?" I ask after what feels like an eternity.
Izzy checks her phone again. "Just about."
I stand on shaky legs and approach the counter. The test lies there, innocent-looking but life-altering. I force myself to look at the result window.
Two lines. Clear as day.
"Shit," I whisper.
Izzy is beside me in an instant, peering at the test. "Let's try another one. Sometimes they give false positives."
We go through the process four more times, with four different brands. The results are unanimous.
Positive. Positive. Positive. Positive.
I sink to the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, knees pulled to my chest. Izzy sits beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine in silent support.
"This can't be happening," I say, though the evidence is lined up on my bathroom counter. "I can't be pregnant. Not now. Not with his baby."
"What are you going to do?" Izzy asks softly.
The question hangs in the air between us. What am I going to do? The options swirl in my mind, each with its own complications, its own heartaches.
"I don't know," I admit. "I just... I don't know."
Tears well up and spill over before I can stop them. Izzy wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against her.
"Are you going to tell him?" she asks after a moment.
Will he even care? Will he think I did this on purpose, to trap him somehow? The thought makes me sick all over again.
"I don't know that either," I say, wiping at my tears. "He made it pretty clear he didn't want anything serious with me. A baby is about as serious as it gets."
"He still has a right to know," Izzy says, though I can tell from her tone she'd be just as happy if I never spoke to him again.
"I know." I rest my head on her shoulder. "I just... I need time to process this first. To figure out what I want before I involve him."
She nods, squeezing me tighter. "Whatever you decide, I'm with you. All the way."
We sit there on the cold bathroom floor, surrounded by positive pregnancy tests, while our forgotten spaghetti sauce congeals on the stove. In the space of an hour, my entire future has shifted on its axis, rearranging itself around this new reality.
I'm pregnant with Alexander Kingsley's baby. And I have absolutely no idea what comes next.
Tristan's office gleams with harsh white light that makes my already sensitive stomach tighten.
I smooth my dress and step through the glass doors.
The surprise hits me immediately: Julian Fairfax sits beside Tristan, both men rising as I enter.
I wasn't expecting a joint meeting. I wasn't expecting to face them both while my world is cracking apart at the seams.
"Camille," Tristan says with a slight nod. His voice is cool and precise, like everything about him. "Thank you for coming in."
"Hope you don't mind me crashing," Julian adds, his smile warming his entire face. "I was in the neighborhood.”
I force my professional smile into place, though it feels like a mask. "Of course. It’s nice to see you again."
I take the seat across from them, setting my portfolio on the gleaming table.
Two days. It's been two days since those four tests lined up on my bathroom counter, all displaying the same life-altering truth.
Two days of panic, of weighing options, of imagining impossible futures.
Two days of telling absolutely no one except Izzy.
And now I'm sitting across from Alexander's friends, men who might very well know what happened between us in Antigua. Men who might someday learn they're in the presence of the woman carrying their friend's child.
The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me.
"You've brought the preliminary concepts?" Tristan asks, his blue eyes sharp and assessing.
I nod, opening my portfolio with hands I force to remain steady. "For both projects, though they're taking different directions based on your specific needs."
I begin presenting the designs, grateful for the familiar territory. Work I understand. Work I can control. Unlike the chaos of my personal life, design has rules and principles I can rely on.
"For the penthouses, I've focused on creating spaces that feel both exclusive and welcoming," I explain, spreading renderings across the table. "Clean lines, premium materials, but with textural elements that add warmth."
Tristan studies the designs, his expression unreadable. But when he looks up, there's a hint of approval in his eyes. "You've captured exactly what I described. Impressive."