"Get some rest," he says, and there's genuine concern beneath the stiffness.
I nod, gathering Julian's jacket closer around me as I step out of the car. "I'll give this back to you tomorrow," I tell him, but he waves it away.
"Keep it. I've got others."
I stand on the sidewalk, watching as the car pulls away, Julian's face visible through the window until they turn the corner. The night wraps around me, cool and indifferent to the storm inside my head.
In the elevator up to my apartment, I finally let myself acknowledge the truth I've been running from all night: seeing Alexander reminded me that I'm carrying his child, a permanent connection to a man who wanted nothing to do with me. And no matter how much I care for Julian and Tristan, no matter how good they are to me, that fact will never change.
The realization sits heavy in my chest as I unlock my door and step into the empty apartment. I should tell them. I will tell them—tomorrow, when the shock has worn off and I can think clearly again. They deserve the truth, even if it complicates everything.
But tonight, I just need to be alone with my thoughts, trying to reconcile the woman I was with Alexander and the woman I'm becoming with Julian and Tristan.
Chapter 23
Alex
Iloosen my bow tie as soon as I shut the door behind me, fingers working at the constricting fabric around my neck. The penthouse is quiet, the silence amplifying the chaos in my head.
Seeing her tonight—seeing Camille standing there between Julian and Tristan—was like taking a punch to the gut that I wasn't prepared for. I toss my keys onto the marble counter, the metallic clatter echoing through the space.
I throw my jacket on the couch as I make my way to the bar cart. The amber liquid splashes into the crystal tumbler, and I down it in one burning swallow before pouring another. Tonight was a mistake. Going with Fiona was a mistake. Seeing Camille was?—
No. I can't call it a mistake when it's been exactly what I've wanted for months. To see her. To know she's okay.
She looked stunning tonight. That pale blue dress hugging her small frame, her blonde hair swept up to reveal the delicate curve of her neck. For a moment when our eyes locked across that crowded room, I felt everything else fade away. There was only Camille, and the sudden sharp realization of how much I've missed her.
Then I registered who she was with.
I take another sip, letting the whiskey burn down my throat. Julian and Tristan. My closest friends. The memory of Julian's hand at the small of her back, of Tristan leaning close to whisper something in her ear that made her smile—it makes something dark and ugly twist inside me.
"Fuck," I mutter, stalking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Lights twinkle below, life continuing in its relentless flow while I stand here trapped in the quicksand of my own making.
Fiona's face appears in my mind—her smug expression when she spotted Camille, the way she deliberately tightened her grip on my arm. She's always been transparent in her ambitions, her determination to stake her claim on me both professionally and personally. I can still hear her voice, dripping with fake interest: "Is Camille withbothTristan and Julian tonight?"
I should never have agreed to attend with her. I don't even like her. But she'd caught me at a weak moment, when the loneliness felt particularly acute, and I'd thought—why not? It's just a charity event. Better than going alone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Fiona, wanting to make future plans. I ignore it. I have zero patience for her bullshit right now.
Is CamillewithJulian and Tristan?
The thought comes with a feeling of bitterness. I've known Julian since college—the golden boy, the charmer, the one who has women falling at his feet without even trying. And Tristan, quieter but no less lethal in his own way. I've seen them both work their magic countless times. But never like this. Never sharing.
The way they flanked her, their bodies angled toward hers like satellites locked in orbit—it was intimate in a way that made my skin crawl. Julian's easy smile, Tristan's intense focus, bothdirected at Camille as if she were the only woman in the room. And Camille, her cheeks flushed, looking happy like?—
When she was with me.
I turn away from the window, unable to stand still. The whiskey isn't helping. Nothing seems to help erase the image of Camille nestled between my two best friends, their hands finding excuses to touch her, their eyes following her every movement.
Is she with them to get back at me? The thought slices through me, sharp and cruel. Did she know how it would feel for me to see her with them? Or was it simply a matter of proximity—they were there, interested, while I had made myself deliberately absent?
I try to distract myself with work, pulling out my laptop at the kitchen island. There are contracts to review, emails to answer, a dozen tasks that usually consume my focus. But tonight my mind refuses to cooperate, circling back to Camille like a moth to flame.
I can still feel the softness of her skin under my hands. Still hear that little gasp she makes when?—
"Enough," I growl, slamming the laptop shut.
This is ridiculous. I don't pine after women who've moved on. I don't torture myself over what might have been. I certainly don't begrudge my friends for finding someone who makes them happy, even if that someone once shared my bed.
