Chapter 31 #2
"We don’t have to buy anything. But it will be fun to look."
The store smells of lavender, with soft classical music playing. Tristan stays close as I wander through displays of tiny socks and hats, my fingers trailing over impossibly small sleepers.
"Oh," I breathe, stopping in front of a display of plush animals. Among them sits a small grey elephant with floppy ears and kind eyes. Something about it—the gentle expression, the soft-looking fabric—catches my heart. I pick it up, running my thumb over its stitched trunk.
"Do you like that one?" Tristan asks, watching my face.
I nod, suddenly fighting tears. "It's silly, but it just feels... right." I look up at him, blinking rapidly. "This is really happening, isn't it? In a few months, there's going to be a baby. My baby."
"Our baby," he says quietly, then catches himself. "I mean—"
"No," I interrupt, reaching for his hand. "I like that. Our baby. You and Julian and..." I hesitate before adding, "and Alexander too, if he's serious about being involved."
Tristan's smile is small but genuine. "Our baby," he repeats. "I can't wait to meet them."
The moment is so perfect I want to freeze it—Tristan's smile, the little elephant clutched in my fingers, the future stretching out before us full of possibility. And then a sharp voice shatters it all.
"Camille Marie Montclair! What on earth do you think you're doing?"
I whirl around to find my mother standing nearby, her expression a mixture of shock and disapproval as her eyes fix on my slightly rounded middle.
"Mom," I gasp, instinctively stepping closer to Tristan. "What are you doing here?"
"I was meeting Elaine for lunch across the street when I saw you walk in here," she says, advancing toward us with narrowed eyes. "Is there something you need to tell me and your father? Because it certainly looks like you're pregnant."
Her voice carries through the quiet store, drawing curious glances from other shoppers. Tristan stands close by, a silent show of support.
"I’m pregnant," I confirm, lifting my chin despite the anxious feeling in my stomach. “Eighteen weeks."
“Eighteen—” She breaks off, her face flushing with anger. "And when exactly were you planning to tell us? After the baby was born? Or were we just supposed to figure it out on our own?"
"I was going to call you," I say, the lie slipping out before I can stop it. The truth is, I'd been avoiding it, dreading exactly this reaction.
"Don't insult me," she snaps. Her gaze shifts to Tristan, looking him up and down with barely concealed disdain. "And who is this? The father?"
"This is Tristan Vale," I say, deliberately avoiding the question. "My partner."
"Partner," she repeats, her mouth twisting around the word. "I suppose that's what they call it these days when you're not married. Your father will be heartbroken. Such a disgrace to the family name."
The familiar criticism—disgrace, disappointment, not living up to expectations—hits its target with practiced precision. But today, with Tristan beside me and the little elephant still in my hand, I find I don't have the patience for it.
"We're leaving," I say, grabbing Tristan's hand. "Give me a call when you're ready to be supportive."
I don't wait for her response, just turn and pull Tristan toward the register.
We pay for the elephant in tense silence, my mother's judgmental stare boring into my back the entire time.
As we exit the store, I catch a glimpse of her standing exactly where we left her, mouth still hanging open in shocked outrage.
The ride back to my apartment is quiet, both of us still processing my mother's ambush at the baby store. Tristan keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding mine across the center console.
The plush elephant sits in my lap, its sewn-on smile a stark contrast to the turmoil I feel about the confrontation.
My mother's disapproving face keeps flashing in my mind, but I push it away, focusing instead on the warmth of Tristan's hand in mine and the memory of those three words he said at lunch: I love you.
"How are you doing?" Tristan asks as we pull up in front of my building, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.
I nod, offering him a small smile. "Better than I would have been facing her alone. Thank you for being there."
"Always," he says simply, and I believe him.
He puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine—a detail that catches my attention. Usually, he'd come up, at least for a while. We'd make dinner or order in, maybe watch a movie, eventually falling into bed together in that easy rhythm we've established over these past months.
"You're not coming up?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
Something flickers across his face—not reluctance exactly, but careful consideration. "Not tonight," he says, leaning across to brush his lips against mine in a gentle kiss. "I think someone else needs to talk to you."
Before I can question him, he nods toward my building's entrance. I follow his gaze and feel my heart stutter in my chest. Alexander stands on the steps, hands in his pockets, his tall figure unmistakable even from this distance.
"Did you know he'd be here?" I ask, turning back to Tristan.
"He texted me," Tristan admits. "Asked if I thought you would be willing to talk to him. I didn't answer, but..." He shrugs. "He's here anyway."
I squeeze his hand, suddenly nervous. "And you're okay with that? With me talking to him?"
Tristan's eyes meet mine, steady and sure.
"I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Camille.
That means I want what's best for you, even if it's complicated.
" His gaze shifts back to Alexander before returning to me.
"Just remember what you're worth. Don't settle for anything less than what you deserve. "
With one last kiss—this one deeper, almost possessive—Tristan releases my hand. I climb out of the car, clutching the little elephant as I approach the steps where Alexander waits.
He straightens when he sees me, his expression an unusual blend of nerves and determination. He's still in a suit, though he's loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar—small concessions to comfort that somehow make him look more human, less like the untouchable Alexander Kingsley I first met.
"Hi," he says, a surprisingly simple greeting from a man who usually speaks in carefully crafted sentences.
"Hi." I stop a few feet from him, suddenly aware of my windblown hair and casual dress. "What are you doing here?"
He glances at Tristan's departing car, his jaw tightening slightly before he returns his gaze to me. "I needed to see you. To finish what I started saying yesterday."
I nod toward my door. "Do you want to come up?"
"Please."
As we walk inside, I set the elephant on the entryway table and set my purse beside it, buying a few seconds to gather my composure.
When I turn, Alexander stands in the middle of my living room, looking both out of place and strangely fitting in at the same time. The contradiction of it—of him—makes my head spin.
"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" I offer, falling back on social niceties to delay whatever's coming.
He shakes his head. "I'm fine, thank you."
We stare at each other for a long moment, the air between us charged with memories and possibilities. Finally, he speaks.
"I meant everything I said yesterday," he begins, his voice lower, rougher than his usual polished tones.
"I pushed you away because I was scared.
I've spent my whole life avoiding anything that could make me vulnerable—relationships, attachments, anything I couldn't control.
And then you came along and..." He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the perfect style. "You terrified me, Camille."
The admission catches me off guard. Alexander, terrified? The man who commands every room he enters, who makes billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat?
"I don't understand," I say, taking a small step toward him.
"You made me feel things I'd spent years convincing myself I didn't need." His eyes find mine, startlingly open. "And when it got too intense, I did what I always do—I shut it down. Pushed you away. Told myself it was for the best."
"But now?" I prompt, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Now I'm done letting fear control me." He moves closer, stopping just short of touching distance. "I'm in this, Camille. All of it. The baby. You. Even..." he hesitates, his jaw working as he forces out the next words, "even sharing you with Julian and Tristan, if that's what it takes."
I blink, shocked by his words. "You'd accept that? Them?"
"Accept might be a strong word," he admits. "But I'm willing to try. To figure it out. Because the alternative is losing you completely, and I've already tried that. It was..." he pauses, searching for the right word, "unbearable."
The raw honesty in his voice, in his eyes, makes my throat tight. This is a different Alexander than the one who walked away months ago—still proud, still intense, but so much more real.
"It won't be easy," I warn, needing him to understand. "Julian and Tristan are important to me. They've been there for me when you weren't."
"I know." He nods, accepting the implicit criticism without defense. "I have a lot to make up for. A lot to prove. But I'm asking for the chance to try." He takes a deep breath, then adds quietly, "If you'll have me."
The old Camille might have jumped at the chance to be with him again, might have forgiven instantly just to have him back. But I'm not that woman anymore.
"I need time," I say finally. "And ground rules. And for you to understand that this isn't just about you and me anymore. It's about the baby, and Julian, and Tristan, and building something that works for all of us."
Alexander nods, relief visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. "Whatever you need. I'm not going anywhere this time."
The promise—so similar to what Julian and Tristan have both told me—feels significant coming from him, a man whose entire life has been built on leaving before he can be left.
I look at him standing there and feel something shift inside me—not forgiveness, not yet, but the possibility of it. A door cracking open that I thought was sealed shut forever.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" I ask.
His smile—genuine, not the practiced one he shows the world—warms his entire face. "I'd like that very much."
I gesture for him to follow me into the kitchen, knowing that this evening is just the beginning of a conversation that will shape all our lives.
There are no guarantees, no promises that this impossible situation will work out.
But as I catch sight of the little elephant on my entryway table, I feel a strange sense of hope.