Is he in her bed now? Is she touching him the way she touched me? Whispering his name the way she whispered mine?
The thought makes my stomach clench with something dangerously close to jealousy. Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on her. I gave up that right when I left her without saying goodbye.
My alarm will go off in an hour and a half. Another day of meetings and decisions and pretending I'm fully present when half my mind is still in Antigua. This has to stop. I need to move on. Maybe I should call Sophia, or Alessandra—women who understand my rules of engagement. No strings, noexpectations, just mutually satisfying arrangements with clear boundaries.
But even as I consider it, I know it won't work. They're not her. They're not Camille with her quiet determination, her brilliance, her vulnerability that she tries so hard to hide.
I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, as if I could physically push thoughts of her from my mind. This isn't a problem I can solve with money or power or business strategy. This is something else entirely, something I don't have the tools to address.
Because the truth—the truth I've been running from since I left that island—is that Camille Montclair got under my skin in a way no woman ever has. She made me want things I've spent my adult life avoiding. Made me question the walls I've built around myself, the rules I've lived by.
The sky outside my window begins to lighten, darkness giving way to the first hints of dawn.
I reach for my phone again, opening my email instead of my contacts. Work. That's the answer. That's always been the answer. Bury myself in contracts and projections and acquisitions until there's no room left for thoughts of blue eyes and blonde hair and the way she fit against me like she was made for me.
Chapter 18
Camille
Idrag the mascara wand through my lashes, trying to make myself look less like the hollow-eyed zombie I've become. The bathroom mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—someone who thought things were going pretty well, before a plastic stick with two pink lines turned everything sideways.
My phone sits on the bathroom counter, screen dark and silent. Just like it's been since I sent those texts two days ago.
We need to talk. Can we meet somewhere? It's important.
A day later, when he hadn't responded:
Alexander, please. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious.
Nothing. No "I'm busy." No "Leave me alone." Not even a simple "No." Just silence.
"Asshole," I mutter, leaning closer to the mirror to apply concealer under my eyes. The dark circles have become permanent fixtures, partly from morning sickness, partly from lying awake wondering how I'm supposed to do all this.
I drop the concealer back in the drawer and lift my shirt, turning sideways to examine my profile. My stomach is still flat, showing no evidence of the life growing inside me. I pressmy palm against it, trying to connect with the reality that's still doesn’t feel real.
"There's really a baby in there," I whisper to my reflection.
The words hang in the bathroom air, seeming both impossible and inevitable. Of course this would happen. Of course the universe would make sure I remain connected to the man who's trying his hardest to pretend I don't exist.
I pull my shirt back down and return to my makeup routine. I'm putting more effort into my appearance than necessary for a doctor's appointment, but it feels important to look composed and capable. Like someone who has her shit together instead of someone who's rapidly falling apart.
The doctor will ask about the baby’s father. What will I say? The father is a billionaire who fucked me for a week and vanished? He doesn't know about the baby, and he's made it painfully clear he wants nothing to do with me?
Yeah, that'll go over well.
I cap the mascara and brace my hands on the sink, taking a deep breath. Part of me wants to cancel the appointment. Put off making this even more real than it already is. But I can't avoid this forever, and I need to know that everything's okay. That this tiny, unplanned life inside me is developing as it should.
"You can do this," I tell my reflection, trying to inject confidence into my voice that I don't actually feel.
Can I, though? Can I really do this? Raise a child on my own while building a career? My parents will lose their minds when they find out. I can’t even imagine their reaction to a grandchild with an absent father. They'll switch from trying to set me up with eligible bachelors to demanding I marry the first man willing to "take me on" with my "situation."
I check my phone one more time. Still nothing from Alexander. What did I expect? That he'd suddenly develop human emotions?
I shove the phone into my purse with more force than necessary. I don't need him. I never did. The week in Antigua was a fantasy—sun-soaked and hormone-driven. This is reality: me, alone, facing the consequences of believing I was special to a man who's made a career out of not getting attached.
But there's a baby now. A baby that changes everything, whether Alexander acknowledges it or not.
I grab my purse and keys, running through a mental checklist. Insurance card. ID. List of questions for the doctor. The prenatal vitamins I started taking the day I found out, their horse-pill size making me gag every morning.
