Chapter 36 #2
I try on outfit after outfit, emerging each time from the dressing room to hear Tristan’s opinion.
He doesn’t give me just "it looks nice," but specific observations—how a particular cut emphasizes my collarbones, how a certain fabric moves with my body, how a color brings out the blue in my eyes.
He has me turn, observing from all angles, occasionally reaching out to adjust a sleeve or straighten a collar.
"You have a good eye," I tell him as I model a simple black dress that somehow makes me feel both comfortable and elegant.
"I design spaces for a living," he replies with a hint of a smile. "Appreciating beauty in all its forms is part of the job."
By the time we've finished, Tristan has insisted on purchasing far more than I need—work dresses, casual wear, even silky pajamas that feel amazing. I protest the extravagance again but he dismisses my concerns.
"I want to do this for you," he says as the sales associate rings up our purchases. "It makes me happy."
There's something about the way he says it—without fanfare or expectation of gratitude—that makes my heart swell.
"Thank you," I say, slipping my hand into his. "Not just for the clothes, but for making this fun instead of depressing. I was dreading this shopping trip."
He squeezes my hand, a gesture so small yet so full of meaning. "There's a juice place around the corner. Should we stop there before heading back?"
The juice bar is busy but not packed when we arrive. Tristan finds a table while I order a spinach pineapple concoction for me and a protein-heavy smoothie for him. I'm waiting for our drinks when I spot Fiona.
I freeze, hoping she won't notice us, but her gaze sweeps the room and lands directly on me.
Something shifts in her expression—surprise morphing into calculation, then settling into a cold smile.
Before I can retreat to our table, she's making her way toward me, her heels clicking sharply on the tiled floor.
"Camille," she says, her voice carrying just enough to turn a few heads. "What a coincidence." Her eyes drop pointedly to my belly. "You're certainly... blossoming."
"Fiona," I manage, my voice stiffer than I intend. "Nice to see you."
"Is it?" She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "I wondered if you might be avoiding me. After our last encounter at the restaurant, I mean."
The memory of that day—Alex's shocked face, the hurt and confusion—flashes through my mind. I struggle to find an appropriate response, but Fiona doesn't wait for one.
"I must say, you've played this brilliantly," she continues, her voice dripping with false admiration. "Most women would be content with one wealthy man, but three? That's ambitious, even for someone with your history."
"My history?" I repeat, confusion momentarily overriding my discomfort.
She laughs, a tinkling sound devoid of warmth. "Oh, come on. We both know this isn't your first rodeo. Though I'll admit, the pregnancy was a stroke of genius. Really locks them in, doesn't it?"
My face burns with shock and embarrassment. People are staring now, watching this exchange with undisguised interest. I open my mouth to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat.
"Is there a problem here?" Tristan's voice, cool and measured, comes from behind me. His hand settles on my shoulder.
Fiona's smile widens. "Tristan Vale. Just the man I wanted to see. I was just telling Camille how impressed I am with her strategy. Three men fighting over the privilege of supporting her and her child? That's quite an achievement."
"The only achievement I see," Tristan says, his tone even but with an edge of steel beneath it, "is your ability to speak with such certainty about things you know nothing about."
Fiona blinks, momentarily thrown by his direct approach. "I'm simply making conversation."
"No, you're making accusations. Unfounded ones." Tristan's hand moves from my shoulder to take my hand in his. "And you're doing it in public, which suggests your intention isn't conversation but humiliation."
A flush creeps up Fiona's neck. "I don't know what she's told you—"
"She's told me nothing about you," Tristan interrupts. "But I know everything I need to know about your character from this interaction alone." He turns to me. "Our drinks are ready. Shall we go?"
I nod, unable to find my voice. Tristan collects our drinks from the counter and guides me toward the exit.
"This isn't over," Fiona calls after us, loud enough for the entire shop to hear. "Ask her about Martin Devereaux. Ask her what really happened with his company's design contract!"
Tristan doesn't slow, doesn't turn, just guides me steadily through the door and onto the sidewalk. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly spill my drink.
"I don't even know a Martin Devereaux," I say once we're out the door. "What is she talking about?"
Tristan's jaw is tight, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble. "She's making shit up to upset you." He stops, turning to face me. "Are you okay?"
I nod, though I'm not entirely sure that's true. "I just... I can't believe she'd say those things to my face. In public."
"People who feel threatened lash out," he says, his eyes searching mine. "She obviously feels threatened by you."
"By me?" I almost laugh. "What could I possibly have that threatens Fiona Astor?"
Tristan's expression softens. "Everything that matters," he says simply, and guides me toward his car, leaving Fiona and her venomous accusations behind us.
When we walk into Tristan's penthouse, Alex and Julian are already there, heads bent over something on the dining table. They both look up when the elevator doors slide open, and something in our expressions indicate that something's wrong.
Julian straightens first, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. "What happened?" he asks, crossing the room to meet us. I'm still clutching the shopping bags, the encounter with Fiona playing on repeat in my head.
"We ran into Fiona Astor," Tristan says, his voice tight as he relieves me of the bags and sets them aside. "At the juice bar after shopping."
Alex's expression darkens immediately. "What did she say?"
I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "She basically called me a gold-digger. Implied I've done this before—trapped wealthy men. She even mentioned someone named Martin Devereaux. She’s obviously lost her fucking mind."
Julian and Alex exchange a look. Alex moves to the bar cart in the corner, pouring water into a crystal tumbler and bringing it to me. "Did she say anything else?"
I take a sip, gathering my thoughts. "Just that I was 'ambitious' for landing three wealthy men instead of just one. Made it sound like I planned all this as some kind of... scheme." My voice wavers slightly on the last word, and Julian sits beside me, his warm hand finding mine.
"She was trying to create a scene," Tristan adds. "Saying it loud enough for everyone to hear. Clearly wanted to embarrass Camille."
"I don't even know who Martin Devereaux is," I say, frustration edging into my voice. "I've never heard that name before today."
Another loaded look passes between the three men. Julian's hand tightens around mine, while Alex's jaw clenches visibly. Tristan stops pacing and turns to face me directly.
Alex moves to sit next to me, his posture rigid with controlled anger. "Camille, there's something we need to tell you. Something we've been working on behind the scenes."
"We didn't want to worry you," Julian adds quickly. "With everything else going on—your parents, the baby, the media attention—it seemed better to handle this ourselves."
A ball of anxiety forms in my stomach. "Handle what?"
The three men exchange glances again, and it's Tristan who finally speaks. "Fiona is the source of all our media problems. She's been feeding stories to the tabloids, creating false narratives, suggesting anonymous 'sources close to the situation'—it's all her."
The revelation hits me like a physical blow. "Are you sure?"
Alex nods, his expression grim. "Completely sure. I have proof—emails, text messages, payments to 'tipsters'. She's been orchestrating this whole campaign against us—against you, specifically."
I struggle to wrap my mind around this. Fiona's dislike of me was never a secret, but this level of vindictiveness seems unhinged. "But why? What does she gain from this?"
"In her mind, she gets me," Alex says with a humorless laugh. "She's been trying to work her way into my life for years—professionally, personally. You got what she couldn't have. Then Julian and Tristan too. It drove her over the edge."
"That's why she mentioned this fictional Martin Devereaux," Tristan explains, moving to perch on the arm of the couch beside me. "She's trying to plant seeds of doubt, create stories about your past that would make us question you."
"As if we would," Julian scoffs, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
"We've known for a few days," Alex continues. "We wanted to be absolutely certain before we took action."
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "What kind of action?"
The three men exchange another loaded glance before Alex leans forward, elbows on his knees. "We're going to destroy her. Professionally. Completely. By the time we're done, no one will want to hire her."
I stare at Alex, absorbing his words. The intensity in his expression is both frightening and thrilling—a quiet, calculated rage carefully contained behind his composed exterior.
"Destroy her?" I repeat.
"She's made this personal," Julian says, his usual playfulness replaced by something harder. "She's targeting you, trying to hurt you."
"We protect what's ours," Tristan adds simply.
I look at my three men and I feel safe and protected. The realization washes over me like warm water—these powerful, complicated men have built a fortress around me, shielding me from a world that doesn't understand what we've created together and I can’t believe how lucky I am.