"All of this is going to be interesting," I reply honestly. "But also rich and sweet and full."
He nods, understanding all I'm not saying—about Julian and Tristan, about our arrangement. "As long as I'm with you, I can handle all of it."
He shifts, propping himself on one elbow, dark hair falling forward in a boyish tangle that softens his whole face. The shadows from the hallway light carve his cheekbones into sharp contrasts, but his eyes—god, those eyes—are so intense it almost hurts to look straight into them.
"I don’t want you to ever do this alone," he says. "I still don’t know how to be what you need, but I will keep working on it until I get it right."
There's something in his voice, in the way he fixes his gaze on me, that leaves no room for doubt. “I love you, Camille,” he says. The words are sudden and absolute. “You and this baby.” He swallows, jaw stubborn. “And I promise you I will never stop.”
Tears sting my eyes as the words crash through me, stripping away the last of my defenses. “I love you too.”
His mouth covers mine hungrily, but it's not the desperate kind of kiss from earlier. Warmth unspools in my chest, a soft steady glow. God, I am so damn gone for this man.
I curl closer to him, my head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I close my eyes, savoring the moment. Tomorrow will bring complications, discussions, maybe even disagreements. But tonight, wrapped in Alexander's arms, I feel impossibly, improbably complete.
Chapter 33
Camille
I’m trying to focus on adjusting the kitchen layout for the Anderson project. My eyes burn from staring at the screen for hours, but I'm determined to make up for all the time I've missed lately. Between doctor's appointments, the drama with Alex, and juggling time with all three men, my work has suffered. I rub my growing belly absently as I reach for my decaf coffee—another small sacrifice that I’ve fortunately gotten used to.
"Ms. Montclair?" My assistant's voice pulls me from my concentration. "The Browns called again about their dining room wallpaper. They want to know if you can meet them tomorrow."
I sigh, flipping through my calendar. "Tell them Thursday would be better. I need to finish the Anderson project first."
She nods and retreats, leaving me to my digital blueprints and mounting deadline anxiety. I've been at the office since six thirty this morning, trying to prove—to myself more than anyone—that my complicated personal life hasn't affected my professional one.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. I glance at it, grateful for the momentary distraction from staring at cabinet dimensions. It's from one of my news apps with the subjectline:Manhattan's Elite Love Rectangle - Inside the Billionaire Baby Scandal.
My stomach drops. I click the link with shaking fingers and watch as the webpage loads, revealing a photo of me—us—leaving Tristan's building last week. The headline screams in bold font:THREE BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOYS PLAYING HOUSE WITH ONE WOMAN.
"No," I whisper, scrolling frantically through the article. "No, no, no."
The text is worse than the headline, analyzing every aspect of our relationship with voyeuristic glee:
Sources close to Manhattan's elite bachelor circle confirm that interior designer Camille Montclair, 24, is currently involved in relationships with not one, not two, but THREE of New York's most eligible billionaires simultaneously: real estate mogul Tristan Vale, retired soccer star Julian Fairfax, and hospitality tycoon Alexander Kingsley. More shocking? Montclair is reportedly pregnant, though which billionaire fathered the child remains unclear...
The article continues with speculation about how I "seduced" all three men, suggestions that I'm a gold-digger, and comments on my youth compared to their "seasoned" status. They've dug up information about my education, my business, even photos of my apartment building. There's a particularly nasty paragraph questioning my professional qualifications, suggesting I've only succeeded by "leveraging personal relationships."
My hands are trembling so badly I can barely scroll. They've reduced something precious and complicated—something we're all still figuring out ourselves—to tawdry gossip. The most intimate details of my life splashed across screens for anyone to consume.
A knock at my office door makes me jump. I quickly minimize the browser window as my assistant pokes her head in.
"Ms. Montclair? There are some, um, photographers outside the building. Security called up to warn us." She looks uncomfortable. "They're asking about you."
"What?" I stand up too quickly, my chair rolling backward and hitting the wall. "Photographers?"
She nods, her expression pitying. "Security says there are about seven or eight. They're stopping everyone who comes in or out, asking questions."
I sink back into my chair, my legs suddenly weak. "Are you serious?"
"I'm afraid so. Do you want me to call someone? Or have security escort you out through the back?"
My mind races. I can't leave. I can't face those vultures with their cameras and invasive questions. But I can't stay here forever either.
"Let me... let me make a call first," I tell her.
When she closes the door, I grab my phone with shaking hands and call Tristan. He answers on the second ring.
