Chapter 33 #2
"Than who?" she challenges. "Than your father and I? Is that what you were going to say?"
"I wasn't," I lie, though we both know better.
"We gave you everything, Camille. The best schools, the best opportunities. And this is how you repay us? By dragging our family name through the mud?"
I laugh, unable to help myself. "Our family name? Mom, this isn't the 1800s. No one cares about the Montclair family name except you."
"How dare you!" Her voice rises to a pitch I haven't heard since I announced I was majoring in design instead of business. "Your father built a respectable reputation in this city. People know us. They respect us."
"And they'll continue to respect you," I assure her, though my patience is wearing thin. "My choices don't reflect on you."
"Of course they do! You're my daughter! What am I supposed to tell people?"
"Tell them I'm happy," I suggest. "Tell them I'm loved. Tell them I'm building a life that works for me, even if it’s different from most other people."
There's a moment of silence on the other end, and for a fleeting second, I think maybe—just maybe—I've gotten through to her. Then she speaks again, her voice ice cold.
"I didn't raise you to be this person, Camille. Your father will be so disappointed."
“Then I’ll just have to deal with that.”
"So that's it? You're choosing this... this arrangement over your family?"
"I'm not choosing anything over anyone. I'm just living my life the way that feels right to me."
"Well, I can't support this," she says firmly. "I won't pretend to approve of what you're doing."
"I'm not asking for your approval, Mom. I'm just asking for your respect."
She laughs harshly. "Respect? For what? For getting pregnant out of wedlock and then collecting men like they're accessories?"
The crude characterization of my relationship makes my blood boil. "That's not what this is."
"All I know is that my daughter is the subject of scandalous gossip all over the city, and she doesn't seem to care how it affects the rest of her family."
"I'm sorry you're embarrassed," I say again, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "But I'm not going to end my relationships to make your country club lunches more comfortable."
"So what am I supposed to tell my friends?"
"Tell them whatever you want," I interrupt, my patience finally exhausted. "Tell them I'm happy. Tell them I'm a disgrace. Tell them I moved to Mars. I don't care anymore."
"Camille Marie Montclair—"
"I have to go, Mom. I have work to do."
And before she can launch into another tirade about family reputation and social propriety, I hang up. My hands shake as I set the phone down on my desk, screen facedown. I know she'll call back. I know there will be voicemails and texts and possibly even an unexpected visit to my apartment.
I get a text and I’m sure it’s my mom.
But it turns out its Izzy.
Are you okay? I’ve read a couple of these articles and they’re rough. Total bunch of bullshit.
Yeah. I’m struggling to stay calm. Just heard from my mom too and I’m sure you can guess how that went.
Oh, girl. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you. Let me know what I can do.
Thanks, Izz. You’re the best.
I feel better as I put my phone down and I get back to work.
By the end of the day, I’ve managed to actually get some things checked off my list despite everything going on around me.
Tristan sent a car that drops me off at the private entrance to his building, successfully avoiding the group of photographers who have apparently tracked me here.
My shoulders ache with tension as I nod my thanks to the driver and hurry inside, grateful for the doorman who stands like a sentinel between me and the outside world.
The elevator ride to Tristan's penthouse feels endless.
I lean against the wall, exhaustion washing over me.
My mother's words echo in my head, mingling with the cruel speculation from those articles.
By the time I reach his floor, my eyes burn with unshed tears and my jaw hurts from clenching it so tightly.
I enter the code and push open the door, expecting to find just Tristan waiting for me. Instead, the sound of multiple voices greets me, along with the unexpected aroma of garlic and rosemary.
"That's ridiculous," I hear Julian say from the living room. "The Bellini has better reviews for safety."
"The reviews aren't taking into account the new safety standards," comes Tristan's measured reply. "If you look at the actual testing data—"
"Can both of you stop arguing and come taste this sauce?" Alex's voice interrupts from what must be the kitchen.
I freeze in the entryway, my bag slipping from my fingers to the floor with a soft thud. Alex is here. And he's... cooking? While Tristan and Julian debate baby equipment?
"Cami!" Julian spots me first, vaulting over the back of the couch in a move that reminds me he was once a professional athlete. He reaches me in three long strides, wrapping me in a hug that lifts me slightly off my feet. "There you are. Rough day?"
I nod against his chest, unable to form words just yet. Over his shoulder, I see Tristan approaching, his laptop abandoned on the coffee table. Beyond them both, Alex appears in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a wooden spoon in hand.
"Hi," I manage, taking in the improbable scene before me.
Tristan reaches us, pressing a kiss to my temple as Julian releases me. "You made it back in one piece," he says, his eyes searching mine. "Are you okay?"
"I... I don't know," I admit. "It's been a day."
"We heard." Julian guides me further into the apartment, his arm still around my shoulders. "Your mother called me."
"What?" I stop, staring up at him. "She called you?"
He nods, a rueful grin spreading across his face. "Called me a 'home-wrecker' and a few other choice terms. Tristan got a similar call."
Tristan shrugs. "I hung up after about thirty seconds."
"She didn't call me," Alex calls out as he returns to the kitchen. "Maybe she doesn't have my number."
"Or maybe she knows you're the actual father and blames us for complicating things," Julian suggests, guiding me to the couch.
"I'm so sorry," I say, mortified. "She had no right—"
"Stop." Tristan sits beside me, taking my hand. "You don't need to apologize for her."
Julian disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of water that he hands to me before sitting on my other side.
"I've been researching cribs," Tristan says, nodding toward his open laptop. "There's a Finnish design that has the highest safety rating, but Julian thinks it's overpriced."
"It's not the price," Julian protests. "It's the practicality. Where's the storage? Have you seen how much stuff babies need?"
Their playful bickering over something so domestic makes my throat tight with emotion.
"You two realize we have months before we need a crib?" I ask, my voice wavering slightly.
"Try telling that to Mr. Spreadsheet over there." Julian jerks his thumb toward Tristan. "He's already comparing the merits of sixteen different baby monitors based on signal strength and camera resolution."
"Fifteen," Tristan corrects. "I eliminated one of them because of reported connectivity issues."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me.
"Dinner in ten," Alex calls from the kitchen. "Julian, set the table."
Julian rolls his eyes but stands, dropping a kiss on top of my head before heading to the dining area. The casual domesticity of it all—Alex cooking, Julian setting the table, Tristan researching baby equipment—feels surreal.
"Are we not going to talk about it?" I ask, glancing between them. "The articles? The photographers?"
Tristan squeezes my hand. "We can if you want to. But we already have a plan."
"A plan?"
Alex emerges from the kitchen again, wiping his hands on the dish towel. "My PR team is drafting a simple statement. Nothing detailed, just acknowledging our relationship and asking for privacy."
"We talked about it earlier," Julian adds, returning from his table-setting duty. "Figured a unified front was better than ignoring it."
"And you're all... okay with this?" I look between them, searching their faces for any signs of doubt or resentment. "Going public with our arrangement?"
"It's not like we have much choice now," Tristan says pragmatically. "But yes, I'm fine with it."
"More than fine," Julian corrects, his usual playful smile in place. "I'm actually enjoying watching society try to wrap its collective mind around us."
Alex approaches, perching on the arm of the couch near me. "The only thing that matters is that you're comfortable with it. We can handle whatever comes our way."
His certainty, matched in the steady gazes of Tristan and Julian, makes something loosen in my chest. After a day of being judged, scrutinized, and criticized, their unwavering support feels like clean air to my lungs.
"My mother wants me to pick one of you and get married," I confess. "She called our relationship 'obscene'."
Julian snorts. "Of course she did."
"Some people are never going to understand what we have," Alex says quietly. "That doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong."
Tristan's arm slides around my waist. "We're figuring this out as we go."
A timer dings from the kitchen and Alex stands. "That's dinner. Hope everyone likes osso buco."
I watch as Alex returns to the kitchen, as Julian finishes setting the table, as Tristan closes his laptop with one final glance at a safety comparison chart.
The scene is so beautifully ordinary, so perfectly imperfect.
These three extraordinary men, each powerful in his own right, moving around each other in this space we're creating together.
And suddenly, the press doesn't matter. My mother's disapproval doesn't matter. Nothing outside this apartment matters.
"This is home," I whisper, too quiet for any of them to hear.
But as I rise to join them at the table, as Alex serves the meal he's prepared, as Julian pours sparkling water into my glass with a flourish, as Tristan's hand finds my knee beneath the table, I know it's true.
"To us," Julian proposes a toast, raising his glass.
"To us," we echo, our glasses meeting with a gentle chime that sounds like a promise.