Chapter 14 Camille
CAMILLE
I watched them take Zainab away.
The CO gripped her arm too tight, yanking her up from the chair like she was cattle. She didn’t fight it. Just stood, one hand instinctively cradling her belly, protecting the life inside her even as they cuffed her wrists behind her back.
Seven months pregnant. Glowing despite the fluorescent lights and the ugly orange jumpsuit. Her hand never left her stomach—rubbing slow circles, soothing the baby even when no one was there to soothe her.
Something in my chest ached.
I gathered my legal pad and bag, watching until she disappeared through the door. The last thing I saw was her belly. Round. Full. Perfect.
I wanted that.
God, I wanted that so bad it made my teeth hurt.
Thirty-four years old.
Howard Law. Top of my class. Partner track at one of the most prestigious firms in DC before I went solo. I had the career. The money. The respect. I had a man who loved me and a woman who completed me.
But I didn’t have a baby.
And lately, that was all I could think about.
It started small. Noticing pregnant women on the street. Lingering too long in the baby section at Target. Scrolling through nursery designs on Pinterest at 2 AM when I couldn’t sleep.
Now it was a full-blown obsession. My womb ached every time I saw a mother with her child. My arms felt empty. My body felt like it was screaming at me—time is running out, time is running out, time is running out.
Thirty-four. Not old. But not young either. Not when it came to fertility. Not when every year that passed made it harder, riskier, less certain.
I wanted to be somebody’s mother before it was too late.
I met Lyric first.
My girl Tasha dragged me to a burlesque show in Adams Morgan. Some underground spot where women performed pole and dance routines that were more art than strip club. I didn’t want to go—had briefs to write, depositions to prep—but Tasha wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“You need to loosen up,” she said. “All you do is work.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The venue was intimate. Low lighting, velvet curtains, small tables crowded around a stage. The energy was sensual but sophisticated—women of all sizes and shades celebrating their bodies without apology.
And then Lyric took the stage.
She moved like water. Like music had a physical form and decided to inhabit her body.
The pole was just an extension of her—spinning, climbing, defying gravity in ways that made my breath catch.
But it wasn’t just the athleticism. It was the way she commanded the room.
The way every eye was locked on her and she knew it.
When she finished, I couldn’t stop staring.
Tasha caught me looking. “Go talk to her.”
“I don’t even know if she—”
“Girl. Go.”
I found her at the bar afterward, still glowing from the performance, a silk robe thrown over her costume. Up close, she was even more stunning. Brown skin. Full lips. Natural hair pulled up in a puff. Eyes that saw right through me.
“You were incredible,” I said. Smooth, Camille. Real smooth.
She smiled like she’d heard it a thousand times but somehow my version was different. “Thank you. First time here?”
“That obvious?”
“You’ve got that ‘I didn’t know I needed this’ look.” She tilted her head. “Let me guess. Lawyer? Finance?”
“Lawyer.”
“Called it.” She extended her hand. “Lyric.”
“Camille.”
We talked for three hours. She was a model and influencer—had campaigns with major brands and a following that most people would kill for.
But the pole dancing was her passion, her meditation, her way of staying connected to her body between shoots and brand deals.
The way she talked about movement, about self-expression, about owning her sensuality without apology—that’s what pulled me in.
I didn’t leave her side for the next two years.
Lyric was everything I didn’t know I needed. Soft where I was hard. Creative where I was analytical. She taught me how to slow down. How to breathe. How to exist outside of billable hours and court dates. How to feel sexy in my own skin. And she was wild.
I loved her completely. Still do.
But then we met Quest.
It was at a charity gala. Some bougie event for a cause neither of us cared about, but the open bar was top shelf and Lyric wanted to people-watch.
He walked in like he owned the place. Because, as I’d later learn, he partially did.
Tall. Dark. Shoulders that filled out his custom suit like it was painted on. He moved through the room with this energy—confident but not cocky. Powerful but not aggressive. Every woman in the room noticed him. Half the men too.
Lyric grabbed my arm. “Who is THAT?”
“I don’t know. But I’m about to find out.”
I didn’t have to. He came to us. She and I sat close enough and kissed a bit. It was clear that we were here together.
He walked over and introduced himself to both of us. He extended his hand. “Quest Banks.”
Banks. As in Banks Reserve. As in one of the wealthiest Black families in DC. My firm had handled some contracts for them. I knew all about that net worth.
I shook his hand. Felt the electricity. Saw Lyric feel it too.
“I’m Camille. This is Lyric.”
“Camille. Lyric.” He said our names like he was tasting them. And that was how it began. From that very first night, he knew how to give us equal yet special attention. Together we shared an Alaska King Size bed and had some of the best sex you couldn’t even imagine.
That was two years ago.
Most men, when they find out you’re with a woman, either fetishize it or run from it. Quest did neither.
He didn’t try to get between us. Didn’t try to make it about him. He pursued us both—equally, intentionally. Took Lyric to the clubs. Took me to art galleries. Took us both to dinners where he listened more than he talked.
When we finally fell into bed together—all three of us—it felt natural. Like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
The world didn’t understand us. Hell, most of our friends didn’t understand us. But we worked. For two years, we worked.
Quest gave us stability. Security. A love that was expansive instead of restrictive.
And I gave him my whole heart.
But things were changing. He was focusing more and more on work. Lyric was so damn materialistic and self centered. And well, I just wanted to be a mom. I sat in my rental car outside the jail, staring at nothing.
My phone buzzed. It was Quest.
I answered on the second ring.
“Hey, baby.” His voice was warm. Familiar. “How’d it go?”
“Good. She’s holding up. Stronger than she looks.”
“That’s Zainab. Shorty’s been through hell and back. She’s a survivor.”
“She is.” I paused. “I’m pretty confident about bail. The evidence against her is weak. But…”
“But what?”
“I think she’s holding something back. Something about that night. Something she’s not telling me.”
Quest was quiet for a moment. “You think she did it?”
“No. Absolutely not. But there’s a piece of the puzzle she’s keeping to herself. I can feel it.”
“Well, if anyone can get it out of her, it’s you. Prime and Yusef are counting on you. We all are.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between us. I wanted to say something. Wanted to bring up the conversation we’d been dancing around for months. But before I could find the words, he beat me to it.
“Camille.” His voice shifted. Harder now. “We talked about this.”
My stomach dropped. “Quest—”
“I can hear it in your voice. I know what you’re thinking about.” A heavy exhale. “I do not want children. That hasn’t changed. It’s not going to change.”
“How can you say that? Your brothers have children. Prime is about to be a father. Justice has two daughters. Why is it so impossible for you?”
“Because I’m not them. I’ve made my peace with that. The question is whether you can.”
“Quest…”
“If that’s something you can’t live with,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “then let me know. I’d rather end this now than drag it out and hurt each other worse later.”
The words hit me like a slap.
End this. He was willing to end this. Two years. Two women who loved him completely. And he’d walk away over a hypothetical baby.
“I have to go,” I said, my voice tight.
“Camille—”
“I’ll call you later.”
I hung up before he could respond.
I sat there for a long time. Hands on the steering wheel. Eyes burning.
He didn’t want children. Fine. He’d made that clear from the beginning. But I thought he’d change. Thought that watching his brothers become fathers would soften something in him. Thought that loving me and Lyric would make him want to build something that lasted beyond us.
I was wrong.
Lyric didn’t want kids either. She’d told me that early on—said motherhood wasn’t part of her journey. I’d accepted it then because I had time. Because the desire wasn’t as loud. Because I thought I could be fulfilled without it.
But now? At thirty-four? With my fertility window shrinking every year?
I couldn’t accept it anymore.
I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. Opened the app I’d been using for the past two months.
My ovulation tracker.
According to the calendar, I was three days away from my fertile window. Quest was flying back to DC tomorrow. If I timed it right…
I’d removed my IUD two months ago. Didn’t tell Quest. Didn’t tell Lyric. Just scheduled the appointment, had it taken out, and kept my mouth shut.
Was it wrong? Maybe.
Did I care? No.
Quest was a grown man acting like a child. Refusing to even consider fatherhood because of some trauma he wouldn’t talk about. Meanwhile, Prime was stepping up. Justice was raising two beautiful girls. The Banks brothers were built for family—Quest just refused to see it.
Well, I was done waiting for him to grow up. Done begging for something that should have been a conversation, not an ultimatum. Done letting his fear dictate my future.
If he wouldn’t give me a baby willingly, then fate would decide for us.
I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
One way or another, I was going to be a mother.
And Quest Banks was going to be a father—whether he liked it or not.