Chapter 26
Alexander
"Fuck," I mutter to the empty office. My hand finds my tie, loosening it in the hopes of releasing some of the pressure building in my chest.
My phone buzzes on the desk—Julian, confirming they're on their way up. They. Not just Camille, but Julian and Tristan too. Her new... what? Boyfriends? Fuck buddies? The words stick in my throat like shards of glass.
I've never considered myself the jealous type. In business, in life, I've always operated with the cold certainty that if something—or someone—can be taken from me, they were never truly mine to begin with. But this is different. This cuts deeper than I expected.
My reflection in the window looks back at me, accusing. What did you expect? That she'd wait forever? That she'd pine away for a man who couldn't even bother to answer a text?
There's a bitter irony in all of this. I pushed her away because I was afraid—afraid of how she made me feel, afraid of needing someone, afraid of becoming my father.
But there's a child now. My child. Our child. That changes everything, whether I'm ready for it or not.
The intercom buzzes, my assistant's voice filtering through. "Mr. Kingsley, Ms. Montclair is here with Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Vale."
"Send them in," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice when everything inside me feels like it's coming apart.
I move to stand behind my desk. Power dynamics matter in negotiations, and this—whatever this conversation is about to be—feels like the most important negotiation of my life.
The door opens, and they enter as a unit. Camille first, Julian and Tristan flanking her like guards. My eyes go straight to her midsection, searching for evidence of the life growing there. Her loose blouse reveals nothing.
"Alexander," she says, her voice cool and controlled. She's nervous though—I can tell by the way she chews briefly at her bottom lip. It’s obvious she’s still pissed about how I behaved last week when I showed up expectantly at her office.
"Camille." Her name in my mouth feels both familiar and foreign. "Thank you for coming."
Julian closes the door behind them, his usual easy smile nowhere to be found. Tristan's expression is equally serious, his blue eyes watchful and wary.
"Please, sit," I gesture to the chairs across from my desk, but only Camille moves toward them. Julian and Tristan remain standing, positioned on either side of her chair once she sits. A wall of male protection that I am explicitly outside of.
"You look well," I say, because I can't think of anything else that won't sound accusatory or bitter.
"I am well," Camille replies, her hands folded in her lap. "The morning sickness has mostly passed."
Morning sickness. A concrete detail of a reality I've been absent from. Julian's hand rests on the back of her chair, his fingers just brushing her shoulder. The touch seems natural. Like he's done it a hundred times before.
"How far along are you?" I ask, though I know the answer. I've done the math, counted back to that night when we lost ourselves in each other and I made a decision that changed everything.
"Fourteen weeks," she says.
I nod, swallowing down the bitter taste of regret. "And everything is... healthy?"
"Yes," Tristan answers before Camille can. "Her doctor says everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat, normal growth."
The way he says "her doctor" twists something in my gut. As if he has a right to know these things, to speak for Camille when it comes to our child. I fight to keep my expression neutral, to not let the jealousy show on my face.
"I'd like to be involved," I say, looking directly at Camille. "In the pregnancy, in our child's life. I know I haven't been there so far, but I want to change that."
Julian's hand tightens slightly on Camille's shoulder. "That's Camille's decision to make," he says, his voice steady but with an edge I've rarely heard from him.
"I'm aware of that," I reply, not looking away from Camille's face. "I'm telling her what I want. What I'm hoping for."
Camille's eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see a flash of the woman who, for a brief times, look at me with such open desire, such unflinching honesty. Then it's gone, replaced by something more guarded.
"You can't just decide to be involved now that it's convenient for you, Alexander," she says quietly. "This isn't a business deal where you can dictate terms."
"I know that," I say, leaning forward across my desk. "I'm not trying to dictate anything. I'm asking for a chance."
"After months of silence," Tristan points out, his hand finding Camille's arm in a gesture that's both protective and possessive. His fingers brush her skin in a casual intimacy that makes my teeth clench.
"Yes, after months of silence," I acknowledge. "I made a mistake. I should have answered when you tried to reach me. I should have been there from the beginning. But I can't change that now. All I can do is try to be here going forward."
Julian and Tristan exchange a look over Camille's head, some silent communication passing between them. The easy synchronicity of their movement, the way they instinctively work as a team around her—it's like watching a well-rehearsed dance that I don't know the steps to.
"What exactly are you proposing?" Camille asks, her voice gaining strength. "Because if you think you can just walk back into my life and take control, you're sadly mistaken."
"I don't want to control anything," I say, though I know that’s not really true.
Control is what I've built my life around.
Control is what I crave when everything feels uncertain.
"I just want to be part of this. Part of our child's life.
I want to be at doctor's appointments. I want to help prepare for the baby.
I want..." I hesitate, unsure how much I should admit. "I want to make things right."
Camille's expression softens slightly, but Julian's hand moves to her shoulder again, a silent reminder of his presence.
I watch his thumb rest lightly against the fabric of her blouse, and something hot and ugly twists in my chest. He touches her with the casual confidence of a man who knows he has the right to do so.
Tristan, too, stands close enough that his leg presses against the arm of her chair, a physical reminder of his connection to her.
I've never wanted to hit my friends before. The impulse shocks me with its intensity.
"And what about them?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice as I gesture toward Julian and Tristan. "How does this... arrangement... factor into your vision of co-parenting?"
Camille's chin lifts slightly. "That's not something you get to have an opinion about, Alexander. Who I'm with is my business. The only thing we need to discuss is how we're going to raise this child together."
Together, but separately. The implication is clear. We won't be a family—at least not the kind I suddenly, desperately want us to be. Camille will have her life with Julian and Tristan, and I'll have... what? Scheduled visitations? Every other weekend? The thought makes my stomach twist.
"I understand," I say, though I don't. I have no idea how we’re going to do this.
Camille looks at me with those stunning blue eyes and I wonder if she can see the regret, the longing, the desperate wish to turn back time.
"Do you?" she asks softly. "Because this isn't going to be easy, Alexander. For any of us."
"I’m well aware. I've been thinking about logistics," I say, forcing myself into familiar territory. Problems to solve. Solutions to implement. "Medical care, for starters."
Camille's eyes narrow slightly. "We already talked about this. I have an excellent doctor who I’m very happy with."
"I'm sure you do," I concede, trying to soften my approach. "But I'd like to make sure all options are available to you. There's a specialist at Mount Sinai who—"
"This is exactly what I was talking about," Camille interrupts, her voice tight. "You can't just swoop in and start rearranging things to suit your preferences."
Tristan's hand comes to rest on the arm of her chair, close enough to touch her but not quite making contact. A restraint that somehow feels more intimate than an actual touch would have been.
"Camille's doctor is one of the best in the city," Julian says. "We researched extensively."
We. That word again. A knife twisting deeper each time I hear it.
I take a breath, regroup. "I apologize. I'm not trying to change things. I just want what's best for you and the baby."
"What's best for me is not being stressed," Camille replies, her hand unconsciously moving to her stomach. The gesture catches my eye, holds it. Her fingers spread protectively over the place where our child grows.
The rebuke lands with precision. She's right, of course. Antagonizing her won't help anyone, least of all the baby.
"You're right," I admit, forcing myself to meet her eyes directly. "I'm handling this poorly. I'm..." I hesitate, the word sticking in my throat. "I'm concerned, Camille."
The admission surprises all of us. Vulnerability has never been my strong suit. In the silence that follows, I watch something shift in her expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of her lips.
"Concerned?" she repeats, the edge gone from her voice.
"I've never been a father before," I say quietly. "I've never wanted to be one. And now that it's happening, I'm worried I'll mess it up. That I already have."
Julian and Tristan look at each other again. But I don't care what they're thinking. My focus is entirely on Camille, on the way she's looking at me now—really looking at me, without the defensive wall she's maintained since walking in.
"Alex—" she begins, but I cut her off gently.