Twenty minutes later, we're in the back of a black SUV, Julian having insisted coming with me just to make sure I’m okay.
"We'll reschedule for next week," Julian says, his voice a low rumble beside me. "No rush."
I turn to look at him, studying his profile. There's genuine concern in the lines of his face. "You're being very understanding about all this."
He meets my gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It happens to the best of us. I once vomited on the pitch during a televised match against Manchester United. Worldwide audience of millions."
The unexpected confession startles a laugh from me. "Really?"
"Absolutely. Food poisoning. Played the full ninety minutes anyway." He shrugs. "We're all human, Camille."
There's something in the way he says it—so matter-of-fact, so accepting—that eases some of the tension I've been carrying. Not just about today's humiliation, but about everything. About Alexander. About my fears of not being good enough.
The car pulls up to my building, and Julian insists on walking me to my door. In the elevator, he keeps a respectful distance, but his presence fills the small space.
"I'll have my assistant call you to reschedule," he says as we reach my door. "And Camille?"
I look up at him, suddenly aware of how awful I must look—pale, makeup ruined, hair disheveled.
"Take care of yourself," he says, his eyes soft. "The work will wait."
As I watch him walk back toward the elevator, I'm struck by the realization that maybe—just maybe—there are good men in the world.
And maybe Julian Fairfax is one of them.
Chapter 15
Camille
The sauce bubbles on the stove, tomato-red and fragrant with garlic and basil. I stir it mechanically, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that's recently become my unwanted companion. Izzy chatters beside me, chopping onions with theatrical sniffles, completely unaware that every whiff of the food we're preparing makes my stomach clench in silent rebellion.
"I swear, these onions are out for blood," Izzy complains, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. "You're lucky you got stirring duty."
I force a smile, focusing on the rhythmic motion of the wooden spoon through the thick sauce. "Trade you?"
"Not a chance." She scrapes the onions into a sizzling pan. "So, you still feeling like crap?"
I shrug, trying for nonchalance. "Just tired. Work's been insane with the Vale and Fairfax projects."
"Uh-huh." Izzy gives me a sidelong glance. "And it has nothing to do with the fact that you've been looking green around the gills for way too long now?"
"It's nothing," I insist, though the persistent nausea suggests otherwise. "Probably just a stubborn bug."
The truth is, I don't know what's wrong with me. Some days I wake up feeling fine, energetic even. Other days—like today—the mere thought of food makes my stomach turn. It comes in waves, unpredictable and inconvenient, especially during client meetings.
Izzy adds the garlic to the pan, and the sharp scent hits me like a punch. My stomach lurches. I set the spoon down carefully and take a small step back from the stove, breathing through my mouth.
"You okay?" Izzy asks, her teasing tone shifting to concern.
"Yeah, just..." I swallow hard. "The smell is a bit strong."
She studies me for a moment, her expression turning speculative. "You know, my cousin was like that. Couldn't stand the smell of cooking onions or garlic. Turned out she was pregnant."
The word lands between us like a lead balloon. Pregnant. The suggestion freezes me in place, my hand still outstretched toward the abandoned spoon.
No.
No, that's not possible. Except...
