I close my eyes, imagining it—these seasonal escapes from reality, these pockets of time where we're just us without the world's opinions pressing in. "I'd like that," I say simply. “But we’ll have to wait until after the delivery and when the baby is a little older.”
"Of course," Alex says. "But maybe we can sneak in one more trip before it’s not safe to travel anymore."
As the conversation shifts to travel plans and doctor's appointments, I find myself floating in a bubble of contentment. Lying here with these three men who love me in their different ways, I can't imagine wanting anything else.
Epilogue - Camille
Fifteen Months Later
Pink and gold decorations transform our living room into a fairy tale wonderland for Ivy's first birthday party.
My baby girl is one year old today, and I still can't quite believe how fast the time has flown by. Down the hall, I can hear her delighted squeals followed by Julian's exaggerated groans as he squeezes in a workout with her watching from her bouncy seat.
I can't help but smile as I listen to them. Julian has a special workout routine just for when Ivy's with him—complete with silly faces and over-the-top sound effects that make her laugh uncontrollably. Her favorite is when he pretends each rep is unbearably difficult, letting out theatrical groans that send her into fits of giggles.
"Twenty more!" I hear him announce dramatically, followed by Ivy's excited babbling. I shake my head, unable to contain my smile. She may not understand the words, but she certainly understands the game.
I adjust a few streamers and step into the kitchen to check on the finger foods I've prepared. Everything is coming togetherperfectly. I've been planning this celebration for weeks—nothing extravagant, just some friends and family gathering to celebrate the little girl who has completely transformed our lives.
My mind drifts back to the day she was born—I was remarkably calm despite all my fears about childbirth. Alex held my hand the entire time, his usual commanding presence softened to something tender and vulnerable. Tristan kept track of everything the doctors and nurses did with characteristic attention to detail, while Julian paced the delivery room, alternating between making me laugh and nearly fainting when Ivy’s head started to crown.
When they finally placed Ivy in my arms, all four of us cried.
I remember looking down at her tiny face—a perfect miniature blend of Alexander's features and mine—and feeling an explosion of love so powerful it nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. The guys crowded around us, each falling instantly and irrevocably in love.
We named her Ivy Alexandra Montclair-Kingsley, though to all of us, she's simply our little Ivy. Alexander may be her biological father, but all three men have embraced fatherhood with a devotion that sometimes makes my heart ache with its intensity.
The past year has been the best of my life. Exhausting, overwhelming at times, but so full of joy I sometimes worry my heart might burst from containing it all. Our sweet family works in ways I never could have predicted. Each man brings something different to Ivy's life—Alex's protective steadiness, Tristan's thoughtful patience, Julian's playful energy.
I took six months off after Ivy was born, focusing exclusively on her and on healing. Now that I'm back at work part-time, we have a rotation system that keeps Ivy surrounded by love and attention. Julian takes morning shifts because he's naturally an early riser. Tristan handles afternoons, working from homethree days a week. Alex takes evenings, religiously leaving his office by five regardless of what business crisis might be unfolding. We're all together on weekends, creating a rhythm that feels surprisingly natural.
The media circus that once surrounded us has entirely died down. It's funny how something that felt so all-consuming now seems like a distant memory. Occasionally someone will recognize us when we're out together, but mostly people just see a family—different than most, but a family nonetheless.
As for Fiona, the last I heard she'd relocated to Florida after her career in New York imploded spectacularly. She's working at some furniture chain store as an in-house designer—apparently the only place willing to hire her after everything came out about her. I should probably feel bad about that, but whenever I remember the things she said, the lies she spread, any sympathy evaporates. She made her choices.
Julian's playlist filters through the penthouse—he's created a special mix for today's celebration, songs that have been Ivy's favorites throughout her first year. I smile when I hear the opening notes of "Sweet Baby James," the song Tristan discovered would instantly soothe her during those early colicky weeks.
I arrange a stack of tiny plates beside the appetizers and adjust the centerpiece on the dining table. Tristan delivered it this morning before heading out to pick up the cake—an elaborate arrangement of wildflowers that somehow manages to be both sophisticated and whimsical. Not to be outdone, Julian filled an entire closet with toys he swears are "developmentally appropriate" but are definitely just things he thought looked fun.
Their competitive spirit hasn't disappeared, but it's evolved into something gentler, channeled into making Ivy's life magical rather than trying to outdo each other for my attention. I watch them sometimes, these three powerful men brought to theirknees by a tiny little girl with Alex's green eyes and my smile, and I think about how close we came to losing all of this.
"Mama! Mama!" Ivy's voice, followed by the sound of Julian's bare feet padding down the hallway, pulls me from my thoughts.
"Someone's asking for you," Julian calls. "And by asking, I mean demanding at top volume."
Ivy's excited babbling gets louder as they approach. My heart swells in my chest, this automatic, involuntary response I have every time I hear her voice.
I check the time—just over an hour until guests start arriving. Alex texted earlier that he's on his way back with the balloons, and Tristan should be returning with the cake soon. Everything is falling into place.
A year ago, I couldn't have imagined this life. I couldn't have predicted how we'd settle into this rhythm, how natural it would feel, how the love between us would only grow stronger with Ivy at its center. Our daughter has three fathers who adore her, a mother who would move mountains for her, and a future filled with more love than most people experience in a lifetime.
I hear Julian's exaggerated stomping coming down the hall—what Ivy calls his "monster walk"—and her delighted shrieks in response. I smile and take a deep breath, savoring this moment before our home fills with guests.
Julian appears in the doorway with Ivy perched on his hip, her chubby hand tangled in his damp hair. She's wearing the "Birthday Girl" onesie I laid out this morning, though somehow she's already managed to get something that looks suspiciously like protein shake on one sleeve.
"This little monkey was trying to steal my dumbbells again," he says, prying her fingers gently from his hair. "She's getting stronger by the day—might give me competition soon."
I take her from him, breathing in her baby smell. "Did you have fun watching Daddy Julian work out?" I ask her. She responds by patting my face enthusiastically, her eyes bright with excitement.
