She hands it over without a word, then leans back and closes her eyes.
The letter is as heavy as the expensive paper it's written on. Phrases jump out at me as I scan the text: "deeply troubled by your continued choices," "shameful situation," "embarrassingthe family name," "before it's too late." The final paragraph is the kicker—an ultimatum dressed up in parental concern, demanding she "come to her senses" and begin to "repair the damage done to her reputation."
There's no mention of the baby. No acknowledgment of Camille's feelings or her right to choose her own path. Just demands and shame wrapped in formal language and signed with a flourish: "Your concerned parents, Edward and Lacy Montclair."
"Jesus," I mutter, fighting the urge to crumple the paper into a ball and throw it across the room. "This is..."
"Yeah." Camille's voice is flat.
I set the letter on the coffee table, turning to face her fully. "I'm so sorry, baby."
She shrugs, a small gesture that tries to minimize the hurt I can clearly see written across her face. "They've made their position clear from the beginning. I don't know why this is surprising. I guess I just hoped they’d get used to the situation."
But I understand why it feels different. A phone call can be dismissed as heat-of-the-moment emotion. A formal letter is deliberate. Calculated. Someone sat down and thought about exactly how to phrase their disapproval.
"I just don't understand," she continues. "How can they just... dismiss everything? My feelings, my choices, my life?" Her voice catches slightly. "They don't even mention the baby."
I take her hand in mine, threading our fingers together. "Because this isn't about you or the baby. It's about them—their image, their social standing, how they appear to their friends."
"I know that. Logically, I know that." A tear finally escapes, tracking slowly down her cheek. "But it still hurts."
I wipe the tear away with my thumb. "Of course it does. They're your parents. You're supposed to be able to count on them to love you unconditionally."
She leans into my touch, seeking comfort. "Part of me wants to call them, to try one more time to make them understand. But another part just wants to..." She trails off, unable to articulate the complicated mix of emotions I can see playing across her face.
"To tell them to go to hell?" I suggest, trying to lighten the moment.
She manages a small, genuine smile. "Something like that."
I shift, pulling her closer until she's nestled against my side, her head on my shoulder. We sit in silence for a few moments, my hand stroking her arm, her breathing gradually steadying.
"You know," I say finally, "my father didn't speak to me for two years after I quit professional soccer."
She looks up, surprised. I don't talk about my family much.
"He'd built this whole identity around being Julian Fairfax's father, the man who raised a sports star. When I walked away from it, he felt like I'd taken something from him."
"Did you ever regret it? Walking away?"
"Not for a second." I press a kiss to her temple. "Because I made that choice for me, not for him or anyone else."
She absorbs this, her fingers idly playing with the hem of my shirt. "And now? Are you and your father okay?"
"We are. It took time, but he came around. Realized that my happiness mattered more than his expectations."
"I don't know if my parents will ever come around," she admits quietly.
"Maybe they will, maybe they won't. But either way, it doesn't change us." I gently turn her face toward mine. "They don't get to have an opinion on our happiness, Cami."
The simple truth of it seems to reach her. Something in her expression shifts, a burden lifting slightly.
"Our happiness is what matters. You, me, Tristan, Alex. The baby. The life we're building together." I brush another kissagainst her forehead. "It's definitely not the norm, but it works for us. And anyone who can't see how real it is, how good it is? They don't need to be part of our world."
She nods slowly, then reaches for the letter on the coffee table. With deliberate movements, she tears it in half, then quarters, then eighths.
"Better?" I ask, smiling at the small act of defiance.
"Much." She gives me a smile. "Though I might need ice cream to fully process this emotional breakthrough."
