"Alex—" she begins, but I cut her off gently.
"I know I don't deserve another chance. I know I've already disappointed you in ways that can't be easily forgiven. But this isn't about us anymore." I lean forward, elbows on my knees,closing some of the distance between us. "This is about our child. And I want to be the kind of father that child deserves."
Something passes between us then, a moment of connection that transcends the complications of our current situation. For a few seconds, we're just two people contemplating the enormous responsibility of bringing a new life into the world.
"Have you had an ultrasound yet?" I ask, changing direction to safer ground.
Camille nods, and the smallest smile touches her lips. "Two. The most recent was last week." She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone, tapping through to find something. After a moment, she holds it out to me.
I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. The screen shows a grainy black and white image—unmistakably a baby, though still alien in its features. A profile, a tiny hand, the curve of a spine.
"That's..." I can't finish the sentence. My throat closes around the words.
"That's my… our baby," Camille completes for me, her voice gentle.
I stare at the image, trying to reconcile this reality with the one I've been living in. This isn't an abstract concept anymore. This is a human being forming cell by cell, heartbeat already strong, features already taking shape.
"Would you like a copy?" she asks, and the simple kindness of the offer nearly undoes me.
"Yes," I manage. "I would."
Tristan clears his throat. "We should discuss practical matters. Financial arrangements, custody expectations, things of that nature."
His tone is calm, reasonable, but the reminder of his presence—of his role in Camille's life, in my child's future life—brings me back to the complex reality we're navigating.
"Of course," I agree, reluctantly handing the phone back to Camille. "I want to be clear that I'll provide whatever financial support is necessary. Whatever the baby needs?—"
"We're not concerned about money," Julian interjects, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Between the three of us, finances aren't an issue."
The three of us. Another twist of the knife.
"Nevertheless," I press on, "I want my commitment on record. College fund, healthcare, trust fund. I'll have my lawyers draw up?—"
"We don't need lawyers yet," Camille cuts in. "Let's just talk as people first, figure out what makes sense for everyone."
I nod, reining in my instinct to formalize everything immediately. "Alright. What are you thinking in terms of custody arrangements?"
It feels surreal to be having this conversation. Three months ago, Camille and I were lovers. Now we're negotiating the terms of co-parenting like business associates.
"I haven't decided yet," she admits, glancing briefly at Julian and Tristan. "There's still time to figure that out. But I want to be clear that I expect to be the primary caregiver. At least for the first few years."
Of course she does.
"That's reasonable," I concede. "But I want regular time with the baby. Not just occasional visits."
"We can work something out," she says, and there's a note of genuine willingness in her voice that gives me hope. "As long as you understand that my relationship with Julian and Tristan isn't going to change. They'll be part of the baby's life too."
Before I can respond to this difficult truth, the door to my office swings open without warning. Fiona Astor strides in, dressed impeccably in a navy dress that clings to every curve, her dark hair swept up in some elaborate style.
"Alex, I've been waiting downstairs for—" She stops mid-sentence as she takes in the scene before her. Her eyes narrow as they land on Camille, then widen slightly as she registers Julian and Tristan. "Oh, I didn't realize you had a meeting."
"Fiona." My voice comes out sharp with irritation. "This isn't a good time."
But she's already moving into the room, uninvited. "No need to rush on my account. I'll just wait." She gives Camille a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Camille… I heard you've been quite... busy lately."
The implication in her tone is unmistakable—a reference to Camille's arrangement with Julian and Tristan, delivered with just enough venom to sting. I see Camille's face flush, her posture stiffening.
"We're in the middle of something important, Fiona," I snap.
