"For the penthouses, I've focused on creating spaces that feel both exclusive and welcoming," I explain, spreading renderings across the table. "Clean lines, premium materials, but with textural elements that add warmth."
Tristan studies the designs, his expression unreadable. But when he looks up, there's a hint of approval in his eyes. "You've captured exactly what I described. Impressive."
The praise shouldn't affect me so strongly, but it does. A flush of pleasure cuts through my anxiety, momentarily distracting me from my nausea. There's something about Tristan's approval that feels earned, valuable precisely because it isn't given freely.
"And for the community center," I continue, turning to Julian, "I've designed zones that flow into each other while still maintaining distinct purposes. Since you’re here, I may as well show you what I’ve come up with."
Julian leans forward, his eyes lighting up as he takes in the renderings. "These are brilliant, Camille. The kids will love this space."
Our fingers brush as he takes one of the drawings, and an unexpected current passes between us. I pull back slightly, confused by my own reaction. What's wrong with me? I'm pregnant with another man's child, yet here I am, responding to Julian's touch like a teenager.
"The materials are durable but don't feel institutional," I continue, trying to refocus. "The goal is to create a space that feels special—somewhere the kids can really make their own."
"It's perfect," Julian says, his eyes meeting mine.
I smile, genuinely this time. "I'm glad you like it."
Tristan clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. "What's your timeline for implementation?"
As I outline the project schedule, another wave of nausea hits me—stronger this time, threatening to overwhelm my professional composure. I pause mid-sentence, taking a careful breath through my nose.
"Camille?" Tristan's voice cuts through my discomfort. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically, though I'm anything but. "Just a slight headache."
Julian's eyes narrow slightly, searching my face. There's concern there, and something else—understanding, perhaps. He’s thinking about our last meeting, my humiliating dash to the trash can. Does he suspect?
"Would you like some water?" he offers, already standing.
"Please," I manage, grateful for the momentary reprieve.
While Julian fetches the water, Tristan continues examining the renderings, making notes in the margins with precise, elegant handwriting. His focus gives me a moment to collect myself, to push back against the nausea threatening to undo me.
Julian returns with the water, setting it before me with a gentleness that feels almost intimate. "Here you go."
"Thank you." Our eyes meet as I take the glass, and something passes between us—a current of understanding, of connection that catches me off guard.
I sip the water slowly, using the moment to gather my composure. When I set the glass down, both men are watching me—Tristan with clinical assessment, Julian with undisguised concern.
"Shall we continue?" I ask, determinedly professional.
We move through the rest of the presentation without incident, though I catch Julian watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. There's something about his attention that feelsboth unsettling and comforting—as if he's ready to catch me if I fall.
Tristan seems more attentive than usual, his questions precise but delivered with a gentleness that seems out of character. Are they both handling me with care, or am I imagining things?
By the time we wrap up, I've managed to maintain my professional facade, though it's cost me more effort than any meeting should. We stand, Tristan collecting the renderings I've approved for his project.
"I'm pleased with the direction," he says, and coming from him, it feels like effusive praise. "Let's meet again next week to finalize materials."
"Of course," I agree, gathering my portfolio.
Julian steps closer, his voice dropping slightly. "Can I walk you out?"
There's no reason to refuse, though part of me wants to run—from his concern, from the unexpected attraction I feel, from the complications of my situation.
"Sure," I say instead.
In the elevator, Julian stands close enough that I can smell his cologne. The small space feels charged with unspoken questions.
