"Cami? Everything okay?"
His voice, deep and steady, provides an instant anchor in my storm of panic.
"No," I say, my voice cracking. "Have you seen the articles? About us? They're everywhere, Tristan. There are photographers outside my office building right now."
There's a moment of silence on his end, then a soft curse. "I was afraid this might happen. Julian texted that someone approached him at his gym this morning."
"What do I do? I can't go out there. They'll... they'll ask questions about the baby, about all of us. I can't?—"
"Hey," his voice softens. "Take a breath, Cami. It's going to be okay."
I try to follow his instruction, pulling air into my lungs that suddenly feel too tight.
"They're just a bunch of media vultures," he continues. "They'll move on when they have someone else to stalk. It’ll die down—I promise."
"When?" I demand, hearing the hysteria edge into my voice. "My whole life is out there, Tristan. They're saying I seduced all of you, that I'm some kind of—of gold-digger."
"Anyone who knows you knows that's bullshit."
"But that's just it," I say, staring at my office window, suddenly feeling exposed even with the blinds drawn. "Now everyone thinks they know me. My clients will see this. My neighbors. People I went to school with."
I hear him shifting, the soft sound of a door closing. He's giving me his complete attention, which only makes me feel more guilty for interrupting his workday with my meltdown.
"I can send a car," he offers. "The driver can pull into the underground garage. You won't have to face any of them."
The offer is tempting, but it feels like running away. "I have meetings. I’m already behind on the Anderson project..."
"Work can wait," he says firmly. "Or you can do it remotely. Come to my place. Or Julian's. Whichever you prefer."
I close my eyes, trying to think through the fog of panic. "I don't want to hide."
"It's not hiding," he corrects gently. "It's choosing not to engage with people who don't deserve your time or energy."
There's wisdom in his words, but it still feels like defeat. Like they've already managed to disrupt my life, force changes to my routine.
"I'll think about it," I say finally. "Thank you for... for being so calm about this."
"Trust me, I'm not calm on the inside." There's an edge to his voice now. "But getting angry won't help us right now. What will help is figuring out the best way through this."
After we hang up, I walk to my office window and peek through the blinds. Sure enough, I can see them down on the sidewalk—cameras with long lenses pointed at the building entrance, people hovering with notebooks and recording devices. Waiting for me.
I've barely managed to refocus on the Anderson project when my phone rings again. The screen lights up with "Mom" and a photo of her from last Christmas, looking perfectly coiffed in her cream cashmere sweater and pearls. My finger hovers over the decline button. I could let it go to voicemail, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a deep breath that does nothing to calm my nerves, I answer.
"Hi, Mom."
"Camille Marie." Her voice is tight, controlled in that specific way that means she's about two sentences from explosion. "Please tell me this... this tabloid nonsense I'm looking at isn't true."
I close my eyes, my free hand automatically moving to my stomach. "Which part, specifically?"
"Don't be smart with me, young lady." Her voice rises. "It's all over the internet! You and three men? Three? And you're flaunting your pregnancy like some kind of—of—I don't even have words!"
"I'm not flaunting anything," I reply, struggling to keep my voice level. "I'm just living my life."
"Living your life?" She lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Camille, you're the talk of every social circle in Manhattan! Margaret Peterson called me this morning asking if it was my daughter in those photos. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?"
As usual, this isn't about me or my wellbeing. It's about how my choices reflect on her.
"I'm sorry you're embarrassed," I say carefully, "but my relationship is my business."
