Alexander knows that we're together and that you're pregnant. Just wanted to make sure you weren't blindsided if he calls you.
"What the fuck?" I whisper to the empty studio. My fingers tremble as I scroll through the other messages—three from Julian, two from Tristan, all variations on the same warning.
How did Alexander find out? Did Julian and Tristan tell him? Why would they do that without talking to me first?
Heat rises to my face as my mind cycles through possibilities. I'd tried to tell him but he refused to return any of my texts. And now he’s learned about it from Julian and Tristan? My throat tightens with anger and something dangerously close to tears.
I start typing a response to Julian when my studio door swings open so hard it bounces against the wall. I jump, phone clutched to my chest, as Alexander Kingsley strides in like he owns the place.
His presence fills the room instantly. Even disheveled—tie slightly askew, hair not quite as perfectly styled as usual—he radiates that infuriating authority that took my breath away. Now it just makes me want to throw something at him. Something hard that would hurt…
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands without even bothering to say hello. His green eyes lock onto mine, fierce with accusation. "How dare you keep this from me?"
I almost laugh at the audacity. "I tried, Alexander, and you know that. I texted you several times." My voice rises with each sentence. "You just decided to ignore me."
"So you decided to use Julian and Tristan to get my attention?" He paces toward me, stopping just short of invading my personal space. I feel my heartrate picking up. "Was that theplan? Sleep with my best friends so I'd be forced to acknowledge you?"
This time I do laugh, the sound harsh and disbelieving. "You must be kidding right now." I step forward and have to keep myself from poking a finger at his chest. "You practically threw me away—and now you're mad that someone else picked me up? That's rich, even for you."
He captures my wrist, his touch sending an unwelcome jolt through my system. "Both of them, Camille? Really?" His voice drops to that dangerous low register that used to precede him pushing me against walls. "Was one not enough?"
I yank my hand free. "Don't you dare judge me. You don't get to disappear for months and then waltz back in here with opinions about my life."
He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. The gesture is so uncharacteristic—so human—that for a moment, my anger falters. Then he speaks again.
"Who's your obstetrician?" he asks, switching tactics with typical Alexander abruptness. "How many babies have they delivered?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your doctor," he repeats slowly, as if I'm being deliberately obtuse. "I want to know their qualifications. I have connections with the top OB-GYN specialists in the country."
I cross my arms over my chest. "The name of my doctor is none of your goddamn business."
"It absolutely is my business," he counters, stepping closer. "That's my child you're carrying."
"A child you didn't want to know about until today," I remind him, stepping back to create distance between us. My desk stops my retreat, solid against my lower back.
Alexander's eyes narrow dangerously. Then, without warning, they widen with some new realization. "You had a glass of champagne at the benefit."
"What?"
"The charity gala. You were holding champagne." His voice rises, incredulity mixing with anger. "You're not supposed to be drinking. What were you thinking?"
I stare at him, momentarily speechless at the accusation. "I wasn't drinking it, you asshole. Julian got it for me without thinking, and I was just carrying it because—" I stop myself. "Why am I even explaining this to you? You don't get to interrogate me."
"Of course I do," he says, the words clipped and cold. "If you're going to be reckless with my child's health?—"
"Reckless? Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I can actually feel my blood starting to boil. "I haven't had a drop of alcohol in months. And I've followed every recommendation for pregnant women, including giving up my favorite cheese."
Something flickers across Alexander's face—hurt, maybe, or guilt—but it's gone before I can be sure. His gaze drifts to my desk where a brown paper bag sits crumpled next to my computer. The scent of spicy beef and beans still lingers in the air.
"What's that?" he asks, gesturing to the bag.
I follow his gaze, confused by the abrupt subject change. "My lunch."
"From where?"
"A burrito place down the street. Why?"
