Chapter 30
Alexander
I'm not used to closed doors. People open them for me—literally and figuratively—but Camille's office door remains stubbornly shut.
Her assistant eyes me from behind her desk, the same answer ready on her lips that she's given me three times this week.
"Ms. Montclair isn't available." Her voice has lost the politeness it held on my first visit, replaced with a flat finality that tells me she's been instructed to keep me out.
I check my watch, adjust my tie, and consider my next move.
"Could you at least tell her I stopped by? Again?" I keep my voice even, though frustration simmers just beneath the surface.
The assistant—older, sharp-eyed, clearly loyal to Camille—gives me a look that borders on pity. "Mr. Kingsley, I've passed along your messages. All of them. If Ms. Montclair wanted to speak with you, she would."
The truth in her words stings more than I care to admit. I've left voicemails, sent texts, even had flowers delivered—all met with silence. Two weeks of reaching into the void and receiving nothing in return. It's a new experience for me, this powerlessness, and I hate every second of it.
"Thank you for your time," I say stiffly, turning toward the elevator.
Outside on the sidewalk, I loosen my tie, suddenly feeling like it's choking me.
The summer air is warm against my face, carrying the scent of blooming trees and city exhaust. I check my phone—habit more than hope—but there's nothing from Camille.
Only emails, meeting requests, things that once seemed important but now feel peripheral to the only thing that matters.
I climb into the back of my waiting car, instructing my driver to head back to the office.
As buildings slide past the window, I replay our last encounter for what feels like the thousandth time.
Fiona's intrusion. The hurt that flashed across Camille's face.
Her quick exit with Julian and Tristan flanking her like guards.
I should have followed her immediately. Should have set things straight. Instead, I'd stayed to deal with Fiona, and by the time I reached the street, Camille was gone.
I check the time. It's just past noon. A thought forms, dangerous and impulsive. I know from one of Julian's offhand comments that Camille has a doctor’s appointment today at 12:30.
"Change of plans," I tell my driver. "Take me to Manhattan Women's Health Center."
It's a risk. Probably an invasion of privacy. Definitely a move that could backfire spectacularly. But two weeks of silence have pushed me past the point of careful calculation. I need to see her. Need to make her understand that I'm not walking away again.
I position myself near the entrance of the medical building, checking my watch every few minutes, simultaneously hoping to see Camille and dreading her reaction when I do. People stream in and out—women of all ages, some with partners, some alone.
And then, suddenly, there she is.
She exits a cab, turning toward the building.
Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, her face free of makeup.
She's wearing a loose-fitting dress that skims over her body, and even from this distance I can see the slight curve of her stomach.
Our child. The reality of it hits me all over again, leaving me breathless.
I step forward, directly into her path. Her steps falter as she spots me, those blue eyes widening in surprise before narrowing with what might be anger or resignation or both.
"Alexander." My name on her lips sounds like the period at the end of a sentence. Final. Dismissive.
"Camille." I fight to keep my voice steady. "Please don't walk away."
"What are you doing here?" She glances at the building entrance, then back at me. "How did you even know—"
"Lucky guess." The lie comes easily, but the flicker in her eyes tells me she doesn't believe it. "You have an appointment?"
She sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Yes, and I'm going to be late, so if you'll excuse me—"
"Let me come with you." The words tumble out before I can consider them properly. "Please."
She stares at me like I've suggested something outrageous. Maybe I have. "Why would I do that?"
I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "Because it's my child too. Because I want to be involved. Because I've spent weeks trying to tell you how sorry I am."
Something shifts in her expression—a small crack in the armor she's constructed against me. She checks her watch, then looks back at me with those eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. "I just... I want to be there. To understand what's happening. To see our baby."
The word "our" hangs between us, heavy with implication. For a long moment, she says nothing, just studies my face like she's trying to read something written in fine print. Finally, she gives a small nod.
"Fine. But don't say anything unless the doctor asks you a direct question." She turns and walks toward the entrance, not checking to see if I'm following.
The waiting room is softly lit, decorated in calming blues and greens.
Camille gives her name to the receptionist, who tells us to have a seat.
We sit side by side, not touching, not speaking.
I can feel the tension radiating from her, see it in the way she sits perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap.
I want to say something, anything to break this painful silence between us, but I force myself to respect her boundaries. This small allowance—letting me accompany her—is huge. I won't jeopardize it with unnecessary words that may piss her off.
When the nurse calls her name, Camille stands quickly. She doesn't look back as she follows the woman through a door, but she doesn't object when I fall into step behind her.
The examination room is small, making our careful distance harder to maintain. Camille sits on the edge of the padded table, and I take the single chair in the corner, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible.
The doctor—a woman in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes—enters a few minutes later. She greets Camille warmly before turning a questioning gaze toward me.
"This is Alexander," Camille says, her voice carefully neutral. "The father."
I reach out my hand and introduce myself. “Alexander Kingsley.”
The appointment proceeds with questions about symptoms, measurements, diet and sleep patterns.
I listen intently, filing away each detail: the slight anemia that needs monitoring, the recommendation for more calcium, the gentle reminder to rest more.
Through it all, Camille answers calmly, barely acknowledging my presence.
And then the doctor pulls out a small device, applying gel to Camille's exposed stomach. "Let's check on this little one, shall we?"
At first, there's nothing but static. Then, suddenly, the room fills with a rapid, rhythmic whooshing sound—fast, strong, alive. The baby's heartbeat. Our baby's heartbeat.
Something breaks open inside me, releasing a flood of emotion I'm completely unprepared for. This isn't just something that’s going to happen in the future. This is real. This is our child, growing inside Camille, heart beating with determined insistence.
"That's..." My voice breaks, and I have to clear my throat to continue. "That's our baby?"
The doctor smiles. "That's your baby. Strong heartbeat, right on target for eighteen weeks."
I look at Camille and find her watching me, something unreadable in her expression. For the first time, I don't care how vulnerable I appear. Don't care that there are tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. All that matters is this moment, this sound, this miracle that we've created together.
The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. I'm aware of the doctor talking, of Camille responding, but my focus keeps returning to that heartbeat, still echoing in my ears long after the device is put away.
Outside the building, Camille turns to me, her expression guarded but no longer hostile. "So now you know. Everything's fine."
"Thank you," I say simply. "For letting me be there."
She nods, already turning to leave.
"Camille." I catch her elbow gently, releasing it immediately when she stiffens. "Have dinner with me. Please. Just to talk."
"Alexander—"
"It's not a date," I clarify quickly. "I just want a chance to explain. To apologize properly. An hour of your time, that's all I'm asking."
She studies me for a long moment, suspicion warring with something else in her eyes.
"Just to talk. I promise," I confirm. "Whatever restaurant you choose. Whenever you're free."
She takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. "Fine. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. That Italian place on Ninth."
Relief floods through me. It's not forgiveness. It's not reconciliation. But it's something. A chance. More than I had this morning.
"I'll be there," I promise, watching as she walks away, her ponytail swinging with each determined step. The sound of our baby's heartbeat still pulses in my memory, a rhythm I suspect I'll never forget.
The restaurant is quiet, candlelight casting soft shadows across the white tablecloth between us. Camille sits across from me, her fingers playing with the stem of her water glass, her eyes meeting mine only in brief glances before darting away again.
She looks beautiful—her hair loose around her shoulders, her blouse a deep green that makes her eyes appear almost turquoise in this light.
We've made it through appetizers with careful small talk, stepping around the land mines of her pregnancy.
Not comfortable, exactly, but not the frozen hostility I'd feared either.
"How's the pasta?" I ask, nodding toward her barely-touched plate of gnocchi.
"It's good." She takes a small bite as if to prove it. "The sauce is interesting—sage and something else."
"Brown butter," I suggest, remembering the menu description. "With nutmeg."