Alexander's jaw tightens. "Do you have any idea how much sodium is in those? Or the risk of listeria from their questionable meat sourcing?"
I can't help it—I laugh in his face. "Oh my god. You're actually standing there criticizing my lunch choices? After everything—after disappearing, after ignoring me when I tried to tell you about our baby—your concern is about a fucking burrito?"
"Your nutrition directly impacts my child's development," he says stiffly, looking offended by my laughter. "Studies show that excessive sodium intake during pregnancy can lead to?—"
"Get out," I interrupt, my voice deadly quiet.
He blinks. "What?"
"Get the fuck out of my office," I repeat, pointing to the door. My hand trembles with the effort of keeping my voice even. "You don't get to walk in here acting like you have any say in what I eat or drink or do with my body."
Alexander doesn't move. He stands there, impossibly tall and frustratingly handsome even in his anger, looking at me like I'm being unreasonable. "Camille, you need to calm down. Stress isn't good for?—"
"Don't you dare tell me to calm down." My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "You want to talk about what's not good for the baby? How about its father treating its mother like she's nothing? How about him cutting her off completely, making her think she has to do this alone? How about him showing up months later, not with an apology, but with criticism and accusations?"
Something shifts in his expression then—a flicker of something almost like shame before the mask slips back into place. His shoulders straighten, his chin lifts.
"This conversation isn't over," he says, the words clipped and precise. "I'll be in touch."
"Don't bother," I call after him as he turns and strides toward the door. "I've been doing just fine without you."
He pauses in the doorway, his back to me. For a moment I think he's going to say something else—something that might somehow make this better—but then his shoulders stiffen and he walks out without another word.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening. I sink into my chair, hands shaking, lungs burning from the effort of not crying. I will not cry over Alexander Kingsley. Not again. Not ever.
"You look like someone killed your dog," Izzy announces as I slide into the booth across from her. Her brutal honesty is exactly why I love her. No pretense, no sugarcoating, just my best friend since second grade calling it like she sees it. She pushes a glass of water toward me. "Drink. Hydrate. Then tell me who I need to hate-bomb today."
I nearly didn't make it. After Alexander's surprise visit, I spent twenty minutes in my office bathroom splashing cold water on my face and trying to convince myself I wasn't about to have a breakdown. But canceling on Izzy wasn't an option—not when I needed her particular brand of reality-check more than ever.
"Is it that obvious?" I take a long sip of water, avoiding the concerned intensity of her gaze.
"Girl, your eyes have bags Louis Vuitton would be proud of." Izzy tosses her dark curls over one shoulder. "You promised you'd slow down with work. The baby doesn't need a stressed-out mama."
"It's not just work." I fiddle with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. The Thai restaurant buzzes around us, waitstaff balancing plates of fragrant dishes, conversations melding into a pleasant background murmur. "Alexander showed up at my studio today."
Izzy's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. "Hold up. Mr. Ghost-Your-Ass-For-Months suddenly materialized? What brought on this resurrection?"
"He knows about the baby." I flatten the napkin triangle, then start folding again. "Julian and Tristan told him."
"Without asking you first?" Izzy's voice rises enough that the couple at the next table glances our way. She leans forward, lowering her volume but not her intensity. "That's some bullshit right there."
"It wasn't ideal timing, but honestly, it had to happen eventually." I shrug, trying to seem more casual about it than I feel. "They ran into him, things got heated, and it came out."
The waitress arrives to take our orders. Izzy asks for something with maximum spice that makes the waitress raise her eyebrows in warning. I stick with mild panang curry, my stomach still unsettled from the day's events.
"So how bad was it?" Izzy asks when we're alone again.
"About as bad as you'd expect." I give her the highlights—his accusations, his attempts to control my medical decisions, the burrito bullshit. By the time I finish, Izzy's expression has transformed from concern to outright indignation.
"That arrogant motherfucker." She shakes her head. "He ignores you for months, then walks in like he's the pregnancy police? The man deserves a knee to the balls."
"Please don't." I can't help but smile despite everything. "But also, I appreciate the sentiment."
"I'm serious. Just give me the word."
"The worst part is..." I hesitate, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth. "The worst part is that I still think about him. Even after today—even after everything—I can't get him out of my head."
Izzy's face softens, the righteous anger giving way to understanding. "Of course you do, sweetie. He's your baby's father. Plus, you've got pregnancy hormones turning your brain into emotional scrambled eggs."
