Chapter 33
Camille
I’m trying to focus on adjusting the kitchen layout for the Anderson project.
My eyes burn from staring at the screen for hours, but I'm determined to make up for all the time I've missed lately.
Between doctor's appointments, the drama with Alex, and juggling time with all three men, my work has suffered. I rub my growing belly absently as I reach for my decaf coffee—another small sacrifice that I’ve fortunately gotten used to.
"Ms. Montclair?" My assistant's voice pulls me from my concentration. "The Browns called again about their dining room wallpaper. They want to know if you can meet them tomorrow."
I sigh, flipping through my calendar. "Tell them Thursday would be better. I need to finish the Anderson project first."
She nods and retreats, leaving me to my digital blueprints and mounting deadline anxiety. I've been at the office since six thirty this morning, trying to prove—to myself more than anyone—that my complicated personal life hasn't affected my professional one.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. I glance at it, grateful for the momentary distraction from staring at cabinet dimensions. It's from one of my news apps with the subject line: Manhattan's Elite Love Rectangle - Inside the Billionaire Baby Scandal.
My stomach drops. I click the link with shaking fingers and watch as the webpage loads, revealing a photo of me—us—leaving Tristan's building last week. The headline screams in bold font: THREE BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOYS PLAYING HOUSE WITH ONE WOMAN.
"No," I whisper, scrolling frantically through the article. "No, no, no."
The text is worse than the headline, analyzing every aspect of our relationship with voyeuristic glee:
Sources close to Manhattan's elite bachelor circle confirm that interior designer Camille Montclair, 24, is currently involved in relationships with not one, not two, but THREE of New York's most eligible billionaires simultaneously: real estate mogul Tristan Vale, retired soccer star Julian Fairfax, and hospitality tycoon Alexander Kingsley.
More shocking? Montclair is reportedly pregnant, though which billionaire fathered the child remains unclear. ..
The article continues with speculation about how I "seduced" all three men, suggestions that I'm a gold-digger, and comments on my youth compared to their "seasoned" status.
They've dug up information about my education, my business, even photos of my apartment building.
There's a particularly nasty paragraph questioning my professional qualifications, suggesting I've only succeeded by "leveraging personal relationships. "
My hands are trembling so badly I can barely scroll. They've reduced something precious and complicated—something we're all still figuring out ourselves—to tawdry gossip. The most intimate details of my life splashed across screens for anyone to consume.
A knock at my office door makes me jump. I quickly minimize the browser window as my assistant pokes her head in.
"Ms. Montclair? There are some, um, photographers outside the building. Security called up to warn us." She looks uncomfortable. "They're asking about you."
"What?" I stand up too quickly, my chair rolling backward and hitting the wall. "Photographers?"
She nods, her expression pitying. "Security says there are about seven or eight. They're stopping everyone who comes in or out, asking questions."
I sink back into my chair, my legs suddenly weak. "Are you serious?"
"I'm afraid so. Do you want me to call someone? Or have security escort you out through the back?"
My mind races. I can't leave. I can't face those vultures with their cameras and invasive questions. But I can't stay here forever either.
"Let me... let me make a call first," I tell her.
When she closes the door, I grab my phone with shaking hands and call Tristan. He answers on the second ring.
"Cami? Everything okay?"
His voice, deep and steady, provides an instant anchor in my storm of panic.
"No," I say, my voice cracking. "Have you seen the articles? About us? They're everywhere, Tristan. There are photographers outside my office building right now."
There's a moment of silence on his end, then a soft curse. "I was afraid this might happen. Julian texted that someone approached him at his gym this morning."
"What do I do? I can't go out there. They'll... they'll ask questions about the baby, about all of us. I can't—"
"Hey," his voice softens. "Take a breath, Cami. It's going to be okay."
I try to follow his instruction, pulling air into my lungs that suddenly feel too tight.
"They're just a bunch of media vultures," he continues. "They'll move on when they have someone else to stalk. It’ll die down—I promise."
"When?" I demand, hearing the hysteria edge into my voice. "My whole life is out there, Tristan. They're saying I seduced all of you, that I'm some kind of—of gold-digger."
"Anyone who knows you knows that's bullshit."
"But that's just it," I say, staring at my office window, suddenly feeling exposed even with the blinds drawn. "Now everyone thinks they know me. My clients will see this. My neighbors. People I went to school with."
I hear him shifting, the soft sound of a door closing. He's giving me his complete attention, which only makes me feel more guilty for interrupting his workday with my meltdown.
"I can send a car," he offers. "The driver can pull into the underground garage. You won't have to face any of them."
The offer is tempting, but it feels like running away. "I have meetings. I’m already behind on the Anderson project..."
"Work can wait," he says firmly. "Or you can do it remotely. Come to my place. Or Julian's. Whichever you prefer."
I close my eyes, trying to think through the fog of panic. "I don't want to hide."
"It's not hiding," he corrects gently. "It's choosing not to engage with people who don't deserve your time or energy."
There's wisdom in his words, but it still feels like defeat. Like they've already managed to disrupt my life, force changes to my routine.
"I'll think about it," I say finally. "Thank you for... for being so calm about this."
"Trust me, I'm not calm on the inside." There's an edge to his voice now. "But getting angry won't help us right now. What will help is figuring out the best way through this."
After we hang up, I walk to my office window and peek through the blinds. Sure enough, I can see them down on the sidewalk—cameras with long lenses pointed at the building entrance, people hovering with notebooks and recording devices. Waiting for me.
I've barely managed to refocus on the Anderson project when my phone rings again.
The screen lights up with "Mom" and a photo of her from last Christmas, looking perfectly coiffed in her cream cashmere sweater and pearls.
My finger hovers over the decline button.
I could let it go to voicemail, but that would only delay the inevitable.
With a deep breath that does nothing to calm my nerves, I answer.
"Hi, Mom."
"Camille Marie." Her voice is tight, controlled in that specific way that means she's about two sentences from explosion. "Please tell me this... this tabloid nonsense I'm looking at isn't true."
I close my eyes, my free hand automatically moving to my stomach. "Which part, specifically?"
"Don't be smart with me, young lady." Her voice rises. "It's all over the internet! You and three men? Three? And you're flaunting your pregnancy like some kind of—of—I don't even have words!"
"I'm not flaunting anything," I reply, struggling to keep my voice level. "I'm just living my life."
"Living your life?" She lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Camille, you're the talk of every social circle in Manhattan! Margaret Peterson called me this morning asking if it was my daughter in those photos. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?"
As usual, this isn't about me or my wellbeing. It's about how my choices reflect on her.
"I'm sorry you're embarrassed," I say carefully, "but my relationship is my business."
"Relationship?" She spits the word like its poison. "You can't have a relationship with three men! It's—it's obscene!"
I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache brewing. "Mom—"
"You need to fix this," she interrupts. "Immediately. Choose one—preferably the one who fathered your child—and marry him. At least then we can salvage some dignity from this situation."
"I'm not choosing one," I say, my voice gaining strength with each word. "I care about all of them. They care about me. We're making this work."
"Making what work? Some kind of—of harem arrangement? This isn't ancient Persia, Camille! This is New York City in the twenty-first century. People don't live like this."
"Well, we do." I stand up, unable to remain seated with the energy coursing through my body. "And it's working for us."
My mother makes a strangled sound of frustration. "Have you lost your mind? Think about your child! What kind of example are you setting? What will you tell them when they're old enough to understand?"
"I'll tell them the truth," I say, pacing the length of my office. "That love isn't always simple or conventional. That sometimes it takes courage to follow your heart."
"Oh, spare me the romantic platitudes," she scoffs. "This isn't about love. It's about attention. You always did this as a child—acted out when you wanted people to notice you."
The accusation stings more than I care to admit. "This isn't an act, Mom. This is my life. My choice."
"Well, it's the wrong choice! You need stability, Camille. One man who will commit to you and your child. Not three men who are probably just playing some kind of game."
I pause by the window, looking down at the photographers still lingering on the sidewalk. "They're not playing games. They've been more supportive and understanding than—" I cut myself off before finishing the thought.