"I'm sorry you're embarrassed," I say again, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "But I'm not going to end my relationships to make your country club lunches more comfortable."
"So what am I supposed to tell my friends?"
"Tell them whatever you want," I interrupt, my patience finally exhausted. "Tell them I'm happy. Tell them I'm a disgrace. Tell them I moved to Mars. I don't care anymore."
"Camille Marie Montclair?—"
"I have to go, Mom. I have work to do."
And before she can launch into another tirade about family reputation and social propriety, I hang up. My hands shake as I set the phone down on my desk, screen facedown. I know she'll call back. I know there will be voicemails and texts and possibly even an unexpected visit to my apartment.
I get a text and I’m sure it’s my mom.
But it turns out its Izzy.
Are you okay? I’ve read a couple of these articles and they’re rough. Total bunch of bullshit.
Yeah. I’m struggling to stay calm. Just heard from my mom too and I’m sure you can guess how that went.
Oh, girl. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you. Let me know what I can do.
Thanks, Izz. You’re the best.
I feel better as I put my phone down and I get back to work.
By the end of the day, I’ve managed to actually get some things checked off my list despite everything going on around me.
Tristan sent a car that drops me off at the private entrance to his building, successfully avoiding the group of photographers who have apparently tracked me here. My shoulders ache with tension as I nod my thanks to the driver and hurry inside, grateful for the doorman who stands like a sentinel between me and the outside world.
The elevator ride to Tristan's penthouse feels endless. I lean against the wall, exhaustion washing over me. My mother's words echo in my head, mingling with the cruel speculation from those articles. By the time I reach his floor, my eyes burn with unshed tears and my jaw hurts from clenching it so tightly.
I enter the code and push open the door, expecting to find just Tristan waiting for me. Instead, the sound of multiple voices greets me, along with the unexpected aroma of garlic and rosemary.
"That's ridiculous," I hear Julian say from the living room. "The Bellini has better reviews for safety."
"The reviews aren't taking into account the new safety standards," comes Tristan's measured reply. "If you look at the actual testing data?—"
"Can both of you stop arguing and come taste this sauce?" Alex's voice interrupts from what must be the kitchen.
I freeze in the entryway, my bag slipping from my fingers to the floor with a soft thud. Alex is here. And he's... cooking? While Tristan and Julian debate baby equipment?
"Cami!" Julian spots me first, vaulting over the back of the couch in a move that reminds me he was once a professional athlete. He reaches me in three long strides, wrapping me in a hug that lifts me slightly off my feet. "There you are. Rough day?"
I nod against his chest, unable to form words just yet. Over his shoulder, I see Tristan approaching, his laptop abandoned on the coffee table. Beyond them both, Alex appears in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a wooden spoon in hand.
"Hi," I manage, taking in the improbable scene before me.
Tristan reaches us, pressing a kiss to my temple as Julian releases me. "You made it back in one piece," he says, his eyes searching mine. "Are you okay?"
"I... I don't know," I admit. "It's been a day."
"We heard." Julian guides me further into the apartment, his arm still around my shoulders. "Your mother called me."
"What?" I stop, staring up at him. "She called you?"
He nods, a rueful grin spreading across his face. "Called me a 'home-wrecker' and a few other choice terms. Tristan got a similar call."
Tristan shrugs. "I hung up after about thirty seconds."
