Within minutes, I'm in a dressing room with an armful of clothes, everything from jeans with stretchy panels to flowy tops to dresses that won't constrict my growing belly. Tristan sits in a chair just outside the fitting room door.
"I want to see everything," he calls through the door as I slip into the first outfit—black leggings and an oversized sweater in a beautiful shade of blue.
"You don't have to—" I start, but he interrupts.
"I want to. Please."
When I emerge, his eyes travel over me with an appreciation that makes me feel beautiful despite my changing body. "Thatcolor suits you," he says, his gaze lingering on the way the sweater drapes over my belly. "How does it feel?"
"Like wearing a cloud," I admit, running my hands over the soft material. "But it's too expensive for something I'll only wear for a few months."
Tristan's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens slightly—a tell I've come to recognize when he's holding back frustration. "Price isn't relevant. Comfort is. Next one."
I try on outfit after outfit, emerging each time from the dressing room to hear Tristan’s opinion. He doesn’t give me just "it looks nice," but specific observations—how a particular cut emphasizes my collarbones, how a certain fabric moves with my body, how a color brings out the blue in my eyes. He has me turn, observing from all angles, occasionally reaching out to adjust a sleeve or straighten a collar.
"You have a good eye," I tell him as I model a simple black dress that somehow makes me feel both comfortable and elegant.
"I design spaces for a living," he replies with a hint of a smile. "Appreciating beauty in all its forms is part of the job."
By the time we've finished, Tristan has insisted on purchasing far more than I need—work dresses, casual wear, even silky pajamas that feel amazing. I protest the extravagance again but he dismisses my concerns.
"I want to do this for you," he says as the sales associate rings up our purchases. "It makes me happy."
There's something about the way he says it—without fanfare or expectation of gratitude—that makes my heart swell.
"Thank you," I say, slipping my hand into his. "Not just for the clothes, but for making this fun instead of depressing. I was dreading this shopping trip."
He squeezes my hand, a gesture so small yet so full of meaning. "There's a juice place around the corner. Should we stop there before heading back?"
The juice bar is busy but not packed when we arrive. Tristan finds a table while I order a spinach pineapple concoction for me and a protein-heavy smoothie for him. I'm waiting for our drinks when I spot Fiona.
I freeze, hoping she won't notice us, but her gaze sweeps the room and lands directly on me. Something shifts in her expression—surprise morphing into calculation, then settling into a cold smile. Before I can retreat to our table, she's making her way toward me, her heels clicking sharply on the tiled floor.
"Camille," she says, her voice carrying just enough to turn a few heads. "What a coincidence." Her eyes drop pointedly to my belly. "You're certainly... blossoming."
"Fiona," I manage, my voice stiffer than I intend. "Nice to see you."
"Is it?" She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "I wondered if you might be avoiding me. After our last encounter at the restaurant, I mean."
The memory of that day—Alex's shocked face, the hurt and confusion—flashes through my mind. I struggle to find an appropriate response, but Fiona doesn't wait for one.
"I must say, you've played this brilliantly," she continues, her voice dripping with false admiration. "Most women would be content with one wealthy man, but three? That's ambitious, even for someone with your history."
"My history?" I repeat, confusion momentarily overriding my discomfort.
She laughs, a tinkling sound devoid of warmth. "Oh, come on. We both know this isn't your first rodeo. Though I'll admit, the pregnancy was a stroke of genius. Really locks them in, doesn't it?"
My face burns with shock and embarrassment. People are staring now, watching this exchange with undisguised interest. I open my mouth to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat.
"Is there a problem here?" Tristan's voice, cool and measured, comes from behind me. His hand settles on my shoulder.
Fiona's smile widens. "Tristan Vale. Just the man I wanted to see. I was just telling Camille how impressed I am with her strategy. Three men fighting over the privilege of supporting her and her child? That's quite an achievement."
"The only achievement I see," Tristan says, his tone even but with an edge of steel beneath it, "is your ability to speak with such certainty about things you know nothing about."
Fiona blinks, momentarily thrown by his direct approach. "I'm simply making conversation."
"No, you're making accusations. Unfounded ones." Tristan's hand moves from my shoulder to take my hand in his. "And you're doing it in public, which suggests your intention isn't conversation but humiliation."
