Chapter 34
Camille
Iglance around at my three men. They’ve all accompanied me to my doctor’s appointment, each occupying the waiting room in his own way: Tristan scanning medical pamphlets with intense focus, Julian talking sports with another dad, and Alex standing by the window, back straight, checking emails on his phone.
My unlikely support system, drawn together by the tiny life growing inside me.
"Ms. Montclair?" The nurse appears in the doorway, her eyes widening slightly as all three men stand with me. "Um… the doctor is ready for you now."
I feel a hand on my back—Alex's—gently guiding me forward. "We're all coming in," he says to the nurse, his tone making it clear this isn't a question.
The nurse hesitates for just a moment before nodding. "Of course. Right this way."
We follow her down the corridor. Julian winks at me when I glance back at him, while Tristan's expression remains serious.
I wonder what the nurse is thinking—what stories she's creating in her head about us.
Maybe she's seen the articles, the photos, the speculation that's become the background noise of our lives.
Dr. Wiley is reviewing my chart when we enter the examination room. She looks up, her professional smile freezing momentarily as she takes in the full entourage.
"Well," she says, recovering quickly, "I see we have a full house today."
"I hope that's okay," I say, knowing that this is a lot. The examination room seems to shrink with all of us in it.
"Of course." Dr. Wiley extends her hand to each man in turn. "I've met the two of you before," she says to Alex and Julian. “But I don’t believe I’ve met you.” She looks at Tristan.
Tristan introduces himself and shakes her hand.
I climb unto the examine table and she helps me lie back, lifting my shirt to expose my growing belly. The men arrange themselves around the room—Alex closest to my head, Julian near my feet, Tristan standing off a little, giving the doctor space to work.
"How have you been feeling?" Dr. Wiley asks, her hands gently pressing against my abdomen.
"Good, mostly. Some back pain, especially at night. And I'm ravenous all the time."
"That's perfectly normal," she assures me, making notes in my chart. "Any nausea or dizziness?"
As I answer her routine questions, I notice Alex watching intently, mentally cataloging every response. Tristan has pulled out his phone and appears to be taking notes. Julian just watches me, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"We had a bit of a debate on the way over," Julian says when Dr. Wiley finishes her preliminary examination. "About whether we want to know the baby's sex."
Dr. Wiley raises an eyebrow. "And what did you decide?"
"I want to know," Alex says immediately.
"Me too," adds Tristan. "It would help with planning."
Julian nods in agreement. "I'm with them. Knowing would be better."
All three look at me expectantly, and I feel a small bubble of resistance rise in my chest. This is one thing I want to experience in the traditional way.
"As I said in the car, I'd rather not know," I say, meeting their gazes one by one. "I want to be surprised."
Alex's brow furrows. "But if we knew, we could prepare better. The nursery, the clothes—"
"We can prepare without knowing," I counter. "There are plenty of gender-neutral options."
Dr. Wiley watches this exchange with a carefully neutral expression, though I catch the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"It's ultimately Camille's decision," Tristan says finally. "She's the one carrying the baby."
Julian sighs dramatically but winks at me. "Fine, we'll do it the old-fashioned way. But I absolutely know it's a girl."
"Boy," Alex says with surprising certainty.
"The suspense will be good for all of you," I say jokingly, settling back as Dr. Wiley prepares the ultrasound machine.
The cold gel on my stomach makes me flinch. Dr. Wiley murmurs an apology as she spreads it with the transducer, her eyes fixed on the screen that all four of us now watch closely.
There's a moment—just a moment—where nothing happens, and my heart crawls into my throat. What if something's wrong? What if—
And then we hear it: the rapid, otherworldly swooshing of our baby's heartbeat filling the room. The screen flickers, and suddenly there he or she is—a tiny profile, a spine curved like a question mark, little hands that seem to wave at us.
"Oh my god," I whisper. Seeing that small body, those tiny fingers—it’s just crazy.
I feel Alex's hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. On my other side, Julian has moved closer, his expression uncharacteristically awestruck. I glance back at where Tristan stands, his blue eyes fixed on the screen, something tender and raw in his expression.
"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Wiley says, moving the transducer to capture different angles. "Good strong heartbeat, proper growth for sixteen weeks. See this?" She points to the screen. "That's the spine, developing beautifully."
Alex leans forward. "What about the heart? Can you see all four chambers?"
"Yes," she says, moving the wand slightly. "Right here. All forming exactly as they should be."
"And the brain development?" he continues. "Is the cerebellum forming properly?"
Dr. Wiley glances at him, a new respect in her eyes. "You've done your research. Yes, brain development is right on track."
"What about the delivery?" Alex asks, still holding my hand. "What safety measures do you recommend? I've been reading about—"
"Alex," I interrupt gently, "we've got months before we need to worry about that."
"I just want to be prepared," he says, his voice softer than usual.
"We'll have plenty of time to discuss delivery options in the coming months," Dr. Wiley assures him, printing out several images of the ultrasound. "But right now, everything looks perfect."
The relief that washes over me is mirrored in three different expressions around me. Julian's hand finds my ankle, squeezing gently. Tristan exhales audibly. And Alex—Alex just keeps staring at the screen, at our baby, something like wonder replacing his usual controlled expression.
After we schedule the next appointment, Dr. Wiley guides us toward the service elevator that will take us directly to the underground parking garage.
"To avoid any unwanted attention," she says with a knowing look.
"Has it been bad?" I ask. "The photographers?"
She shrugs. "Not as bad as last week. I think they're starting to lose interest, but there are still a few camped out front most days."
“I really don’t understand how they know who my doctor is. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I suppose there’s always a way. But I assure you, they didn’t find out from anyone on my staff.”
“Of course not,” I reply, and I believe her.
As we descend in the elevator, I feel Julian's arm around my shoulders, Tristan's fingers laced through mine and Alex's warm palm on my back. Different touches, different men, but all connected to me, to the baby, to each other in this strange, wonderful web we're weaving together.
The paparazzi might still be following us, the world might still be watching and judging, but in this moment, I've never felt more protected or more sure that we're on the right path, as unusual as it may be.
Later on, the rich aroma of curry and naan fills Tristan's apartment as we gather around the dining table, takeout containers creating a miniature Indian feast in the center.
Alex stands at the head of the table, distributing food with the same precision he probably uses to delegate tasks in boardroom meetings. Julian catches my eye across the table and winks.
We’re all so happy. The baby is healthy. Everything is coming together except for the damn paparazzi. And somehow, against all odds, the four of us are making this work.
"I still can't believe Dr. Wiley kept a straight face through the entire appointment," Julian says, scooping butter chicken onto my plate. "Especially when you started asking about episiotomy statistics, Alex."
Alex doesn't even look embarrassed. "It's a legitimate concern. The literature on perineal tearing is alarming."
"Can we maybe not discuss tearing while we're eating?" I plead, though I’m smiling as I help myself to vegetable korma.
Tristan passes me the naan. "You should eat more protein," he says, nudging the lamb curry closer to me. "The baby needs it."
"The baby seems to be doing just fine," I reply, but I know he’s right, so I take some anyway. "Did you see those little hands on the ultrasound? And those tiny fingers?"
"I still think it's a boy," Alex says, his confidence unwavering.
"No, no. It’s a girl," Julian counters. "You have no idea what you’re talking about."
"Statistically speaking, it's a fifty-fifty chance," Tristan points out, ever the voice of reason. "Though there are some studies suggesting slightly higher odds of male births in certain populations—"
"It doesn't matter," I interrupt, as I rest a hand on my stomach. "As long as the little nugget is healthy."
We all fall silent for a moment, the truth of my words settling over us. After too many days of gossip, paparazzi, and family drama, today's appointment was exactly what we needed—confirmation that amid all the chaos, our baby is thriving.
Later, after dinner has been cleared away and the dishes loaded into Tristan's ridiculously high-tech dishwasher, Julian and I retreat to the bedroom.
My back has been bothering me all day—something about ligaments stretching to accommodate the growing baby, according to Dr. Wiley and the many books now scattered across all four of our homes.
"Lie down, baby," he tells me, gesturing to the bed. "On your side."
I comply, settling onto my left side with a soft sigh of relief. Julian slides in behind me, his fingers finding the tight muscles at the base of my spine. I make a noise somewhere between a moan and a purr as he begins to knead gently.
"God, you have magic hands," I murmur, eyes fluttering closed.