Chapter 25
Camille
The fabric swatch blurs before my eyes as I squint at it for the hundredth time. Three hours of comparing nearly identical shades of "greige" has left me cross-eyed, but the deadline for Tristan's project looms, and I refuse to disappoint him.
My phone sits face-down on the desk, silenced hours ago when the constant pinging threatened my concentration. Just a few more selections, then I can breathe.
I rub my lower back, stretching against the stiffness that's settled in from sitting too long.
The pregnancy isn't showing much yet, just a slight roundness that could easily be mistaken for a big lunch, but my body reminds me constantly of the changes happening inside.
Thank god the morning sickness has finally subsided.
With a sigh, I finally place the last swatch in position on my mood board, step back to examine the overall effect, and decide it'll do. Not perfect, but damn close, and perfect is the enemy of done.
I flip my phone over, wincing at the time—12:47 PM—and the notification that shows several missed calls and texts. My stomach drops when I see Julian's name at the top of the list, a message sent just thirty minutes ago.
Alexander knows that we're together and that you're pregnant. Just wanted to make sure you weren't blindsided if he calls you.
"What the fuck?" I whisper to the empty studio. My fingers tremble as I scroll through the other messages—three from Julian, two from Tristan, all variations on the same warning.
How did Alexander find out? Did Julian and Tristan tell him? Why would they do that without talking to me first?
Heat rises to my face as my mind cycles through possibilities. I'd tried to tell him but he refused to return any of my texts. And now he’s learned about it from Julian and Tristan? My throat tightens with anger and something dangerously close to tears.
I start typing a response to Julian when my studio door swings open so hard it bounces against the wall. I jump, phone clutched to my chest, as Alexander Kingsley strides in like he owns the place.
His presence fills the room instantly. Even disheveled—tie slightly askew, hair not quite as perfectly styled as usual—he radiates that infuriating authority that took my breath away. Now it just makes me want to throw something at him. Something hard that would hurt…
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands without even bothering to say hello. His green eyes lock onto mine, fierce with accusation. "How dare you keep this from me?"
I almost laugh at the audacity. "I tried, Alexander, and you know that. I texted you several times." My voice rises with each sentence. "You just decided to ignore me."
"So you decided to use Julian and Tristan to get my attention?" He paces toward me, stopping just short of invading my personal space. I feel my heartrate picking up. "Was that the plan? Sleep with my best friends so I'd be forced to acknowledge you?"
This time I do laugh, the sound harsh and disbelieving. "You must be kidding right now." I step forward and have to keep myself from poking a finger at his chest. "You practically threw me away—and now you're mad that someone else picked me up? That's rich, even for you."
He captures my wrist, his touch sending an unwelcome jolt through my system. "Both of them, Camille? Really?" His voice drops to that dangerous low register that used to precede him pushing me against walls. "Was one not enough?"
I yank my hand free. "Don't you dare judge me. You don't get to disappear for months and then waltz back in here with opinions about my life."
He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. The gesture is so uncharacteristic—so human—that for a moment, my anger falters. Then he speaks again.
"Who's your obstetrician?" he asks, switching tactics with typical Alexander abruptness. "How many babies have they delivered?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your doctor," he repeats slowly, as if I'm being deliberately obtuse. "I want to know their qualifications. I have connections with the top OB-GYN specialists in the country."
I cross my arms over my chest. "The name of my doctor is none of your goddamn business."
"It absolutely is my business," he counters, stepping closer. "That's my child you're carrying."
"A child you didn't want to know about until today," I remind him, stepping back to create distance between us. My desk stops my retreat, solid against my lower back.
Alexander's eyes narrow dangerously. Then, without warning, they widen with some new realization. "You had a glass of champagne at the benefit."
"What?"
"The charity gala. You were holding champagne." His voice rises, incredulity mixing with anger. "You're not supposed to be drinking. What were you thinking?"
I stare at him, momentarily speechless at the accusation. "I wasn't drinking it, you asshole. Julian got it for me without thinking, and I was just carrying it because—" I stop myself. "Why am I even explaining this to you? You don't get to interrogate me."
"Of course I do," he says, the words clipped and cold. "If you're going to be reckless with my child's health—"
"Reckless? Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I can actually feel my blood starting to boil. "I haven't had a drop of alcohol in months. And I've followed every recommendation for pregnant women, including giving up my favorite cheese."
Something flickers across Alexander's face—hurt, maybe, or guilt—but it's gone before I can be sure. His gaze drifts to my desk where a brown paper bag sits crumpled next to my computer. The scent of spicy beef and beans still lingers in the air.
"What's that?" he asks, gesturing to the bag.
I follow his gaze, confused by the abrupt subject change. "My lunch."
"From where?"
"A burrito place down the street. Why?"
Alexander's jaw tightens. "Do you have any idea how much sodium is in those? Or the risk of listeria from their questionable meat sourcing?"
I can't help it—I laugh in his face. "Oh my god. You're actually standing there criticizing my lunch choices? After everything—after disappearing, after ignoring me when I tried to tell you about our baby—your concern is about a fucking burrito?"
"Your nutrition directly impacts my child's development," he says stiffly, looking offended by my laughter. "Studies show that excessive sodium intake during pregnancy can lead to—"
"Get out," I interrupt, my voice deadly quiet.
He blinks. "What?"
"Get the fuck out of my office," I repeat, pointing to the door. My hand trembles with the effort of keeping my voice even. "You don't get to walk in here acting like you have any say in what I eat or drink or do with my body."
Alexander doesn't move. He stands there, impossibly tall and frustratingly handsome even in his anger, looking at me like I'm being unreasonable. "Camille, you need to calm down. Stress isn't good for—"
"Don't you dare tell me to calm down." My voice rises despite my efforts to control it.
"You want to talk about what's not good for the baby?
How about its father treating its mother like she's nothing?
How about him cutting her off completely, making her think she has to do this alone?
How about him showing up months later, not with an apology, but with criticism and accusations? "
Something shifts in his expression then—a flicker of something almost like shame before the mask slips back into place. His shoulders straighten, his chin lifts.
"This conversation isn't over," he says, the words clipped and precise. "I'll be in touch."
"Don't bother," I call after him as he turns and strides toward the door. "I've been doing just fine without you."
He pauses in the doorway, his back to me. For a moment I think he's going to say something else—something that might somehow make this better—but then his shoulders stiffen and he walks out without another word.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening. I sink into my chair, hands shaking, lungs burning from the effort of not crying. I will not cry over Alexander Kingsley. Not again. Not ever.
"You look like someone killed your dog," Izzy announces as I slide into the booth across from her.
Her brutal honesty is exactly why I love her.
No pretense, no sugarcoating, just my best friend since second grade calling it like she sees it.
She pushes a glass of water toward me. "Drink.
Hydrate. Then tell me who I need to hate-bomb today. "
I nearly didn't make it. After Alexander's surprise visit, I spent twenty minutes in my office bathroom splashing cold water on my face and trying to convince myself I wasn't about to have a breakdown.
But canceling on Izzy wasn't an option—not when I needed her particular brand of reality-check more than ever.
"Is it that obvious?" I take a long sip of water, avoiding the concerned intensity of her gaze.
"Girl, your eyes have bags Louis Vuitton would be proud of." Izzy tosses her dark curls over one shoulder. "You promised you'd slow down with work. The baby doesn't need a stressed-out mama."
"It's not just work." I fiddle with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. The Thai restaurant buzzes around us, waitstaff balancing plates of fragrant dishes, conversations melding into a pleasant background murmur. "Alexander showed up at my studio today."
Izzy's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. "Hold up. Mr. Ghost-Your-Ass-For-Months suddenly materialized? What brought on this resurrection?"
"He knows about the baby." I flatten the napkin triangle, then start folding again. "Julian and Tristan told him."
"Without asking you first?" Izzy's voice rises enough that the couple at the next table glances our way. She leans forward, lowering her volume but not her intensity. "That's some bullshit right there."
"It wasn't ideal timing, but honestly, it had to happen eventually." I shrug, trying to seem more casual about it than I feel. "They ran into him, things got heated, and it came out."