Chapter 35
Julian
Ithrow my phone across the couch, unable to stomach another word. The article calls Camille a "manipulative gold-digger" and speculates about which of us is the father of her baby. They've crossed the line. No, scratch that—they've taken a flying leap over the line, then doubled back to piss on it.
I've been patient. We've all been patient. But this is the final straw. No more playing nice.
My fingers are already dialing before my brain fully catches up to my decision. Three rings, then my attorney's voice answers.
"Julian, what can I do for you this morning?"
"Martin, I need cease-and-desist letters sent to every media outlet that's run a story about my personal life in the last month. Full legal pressure. I want them scared enough to think twice before printing another word."
There's a pause, the sound of keyboard clicking. "That's quite a list. Any particular language you want included?"
"Make it clear we'll pursue every legal avenue available. Defamation, harassment, invasion of privacy—whatever sticks. And I want them ASAP."
"Consider it done. Anything else?"
I pace the length of my living room, anger still bubbling beneath my skin. "That’s it for now, Martin."
An hour later, I'm sitting across from my PR team—three impeccably dressed professionals with expressions that oscillate between concerned and calculating. My head of PR, a razor-sharp woman named Diane, slides a draft statement across the table.
"This addresses the rumors without engaging directly with the more salacious claims," she explains. "Dignified but firm."
I scan the statement, shaking my head halfway through. "No, this is too... diplomatic." I push it back across the table. "I'm not asking for a polite request that they respect our privacy. I'm telling them to back the fuck off."
Diane purses her lips. "Julian, we understand your frustration, but—"
"Do you?" I lean forward. "Do you understand what it's like for Camille to read that she's a gold-digging slut?
For people to question which of us is her baby's father, as if it's some trashy paternity drama?
" My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm.
"This isn't about me. I don't care what they say about me. But Camille—she doesn't deserve this."
The room falls silent. Diane nods slowly, then begins typing. "Alright. Let's try a different approach."
We spend the next hour crafting a statement that manages to be both dignified and unambiguous.
It confirms the nature of our relationship without apology, states unequivocally that Alex is the biological father of Camille's child, and makes it clear that our private life is not up for public consumption or judgment.
As we're wrapping up, my phone rings. It's Martin again.
"Julian, we have a situation. The Daily Exposure is planning a cover story for tomorrow's edition.
My source says it's..." he pauses, "extremely damaging.
Allegations about Ms. Montclair's past, implications about her relationship with all three of you, and apparently they're running with a theory that she's using the pregnancy to secure financial commitments from all of you. "
My blood turns to ice. "Can we get an injunction?"
"Not in time. They're going to press tonight."
I stand, mind racing. "Who owns the Daily Exposure?"
"Meridian Media Group. Why?"
"What's their asking price?"
A pause. "Julian, are you asking what I think you're asking?"
"Just find out the number, Martin. And call me back."
I hang up, a plan already forming. It's ridiculous. Impulsive. Completely over-the-top.
One conference call with Meridian Media Group's board later, I'm the new owner of the Daily Exposure. My first executive decision? Kill tomorrow's cover story.
By the time I get back to Tristan's apartment—where we've all been spending most of our time lately—I'm feeling both exhausted and strangely energized. The adrenaline of making such a massive financial move on a whim has got me hopped up.
Alex and Tristan look up from the highlight reel of yesterday’s soccer game. Camille is napping in the bedroom—pregnancy fatigue having hit her hard the last few days.
"You look awfully pleased with yourself. What’s up?" Tristan asks.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop into a chair across from them. "I may have done something slightly impulsive today."
Alex raises an eyebrow. "Define 'slightly.'"
"I bought a tabloid."
Tristan blinks. "You what?"
"The Daily Exposure. They were going to run a particularly nasty piece about Camille tomorrow. So I bought the whole damn company and killed the story." I take a long swallow of beer, watching their expressions shift from confusion to disbelief.
Alex breaks first, a bark of laughter escaping him. "You bought an entire media company to suppress one article?"
"Yep." I grin. "Planning to sell it off in the next year or so. Though maybe I'll keep it just long enough to run a few stories about what a genius I am."
Tristan shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile. "That might be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"And yet completely on brand," Alex adds, still chuckling.
"What's on brand?"
We all turn to see Camille standing in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing one of my t-shirts that falls to mid-thigh. Her hand rests on her growing belly.
"Julian has something to tell you," Tristan says, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.
I shoot him a look before turning to Camille with what I hope is a casual smile. "So, funny story. I kind of bought a tabloid today."
Her eyes widen. "You did what?"
"The Daily Exposure was going to run a really ugly story about us—about you, specifically. So I bought it and killed the story."
"Are you crazy?" She stares at me, mouth slightly open. "You can't just... buy a newspaper because you don't like what they're writing!"
"Apparently he can," Alex murmurs. “And he has.”
I get up and move to Camille, taking her hands in mine. "Baby, I'll do anything I have to to keep people from hurting you. If that means buying a second-rate tabloid, so be it."
"But that's—" She stops, shaking her head. "That's not normal, Julian."
"When have any of us ever been normal?" I pull her to me and hug her tightly. "Besides, I also had my lawyers send cease-and-desist letters to about twenty other outlets, and we put out a statement officially telling the media to fuck off—though in slightly more diplomatic language."
She looks around at all of us, her expression softening. "You guys are too much, you know that?"
"We know," Tristan says with a small smile.
"We just happen to think you're worth it," Alex adds.
"Now, who wants to help me decide what my first act as a media mogul should be? I'm thinking of changing their slogan to 'All the news that's fit to print, except anything about Julian Fairfax's love life.'"
Camille laughs against my chest, and I count that as a win. I'd buy a hundred tabloids just to hear that sound.
Later on that evening, I'm halfway through my workout when my security system announces Alex's arrival. That’s odd—it's nearly eight, and Alex typically doesn't drop by unannounced.
I abandon my weights and grab a towel, wiping sweat from my face as I head for the door. One look at his expression tells me something’s up. His face is composed, as always, but there's a coldness in his eyes I rarely see.
"We need to talk," he says, brushing past me without waiting for an invitation.
"Drink?" I offer, already moving toward the bar cart.
"Scotch. Neat."
I pour two fingers of the eighteen-year-old Macallan he prefers and hand him the glass. "What's going on?"
Alex takes a measured sip first before answering. "I know who started this media circus."
The statement hangs in the air for a moment.
"Who?" I ask, though part of me already suspects.
"Fiona." The name drops from his lips like a curse. "Fiona fucking Astor."
A small, bitter laugh escapes me. "Can't say I'm shocked. She and Camille do not seem to get along."
Alex sets his glass down with precise control. "This goes beyond professional jealousy. She's been systematically feeding stories to the press, starting with that first piece in the Daily Herald."
I sink onto the couch, connecting dots I should have seen weeks ago. "How'd you find out?"
"I have a contact there. I called in a favor and got the information.”
"You're sure it's her?"
He pulls out his phone, scrolling briefly before handing it to me. "See for yourself."
The email on the screen is from Fiona's personal account.
The language is careful—suggesting "sources close to Alexander Kingsley" rather than claiming direct knowledge—but the intent is clear.
She's outlined a story angle about Camille manipulating all three of us, questioning the baby's paternity, even suggesting Camille has a history of targeting wealthy men.
"Jesus," I mutter, feeling my blood pressure rise as I scan the text. "This is calculated character assassination."
"It gets worse." Alex retrieves his phone. "She's been shopping different angles to different outlets. The paternity questions to some, gold-digger narrative to others. She even tried selling a story about Camille having had an affair with a married client."
"That's complete bullshit."
"Of course it is. But tabloids don't care about truth. They care about clicks and eyeballs."
I drain my glass, the burn of alcohol doing little to temper my anger. "So what's the plan? I assume you didn't come here just to share the news."
Alex's expression shifts subtly, and I recognize the look. It's the same one he wears when he's about to destroy a business competitor that's crossed him.
"I'm going to bury her." His voice remains perfectly even, which somehow makes the statement more chilling. "Professionally. Personally. By the time I'm done, she won't be able to get a job designing a doghouse."
"How?"