Under the table, I feel Camille's hand find mine, her fingers cold but steady. "We're figuring things out as we go," she says quietly. "Like any relationship."
Kate leans back, studying Camille with new interest. "Except most relationships don't involve three people and a ticking PR time bomb."
"Maybe they should," Julian says, his easy charm returning as he reaches for his wine. "Might solve a lot of problems."
His attempt at humor falls flat. Kate shakes her head, turning her attention back to me. "What would Dad think of this, Tris?"
The question hits hard. Our father—traditional, unyielding, with specific ideas about how a Vale man should conduct himself—would be horrified. But he's been gone for many years, and I stopped living for his approval long ago.
"Dad isn't here," I say quietly. "And I'm not asking for your approval, Kate. Just your respect."
She sighs, the sound heavy with concern. "I respect you. I just worry."
"You don't need to worry about me," Camille interjects. "I care about Tristan. And Julian. This isn't a game to me."
"Perhaps not intentionally," Kate concedes, her gaze sharpening. "But tell me honestly—what exactly are you looking for in this arrangement? Security? Status? Or is it the thrill of having two powerful men at your beck and call?"
I feel Camille stiffen beside me and I open my mouth to intervene, but Julian beats me to it.
"For fuck's sake, Kate," he says, all pretense of politeness gone. "Is this an inquisition or a dinner?"
"I'm simply trying to understand?—"
"No," Julian cuts her off. "You're trying to find fault. You've already decided what kind of person Camille is without bothering to get to know her."
The silence that follows is broken only by the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Kate's expression remains impassive, but I know her well enough to see the flash of genuineconcern beneath the harsh exterior. She truly believes she's protecting me.
And maybe part of me understands that. But the larger part just wants this evening to end before more damage is done.
The housekeeper returns to clear our plates, the silence heavy as she works.
Kate's interrogation has created a minefield at the table, and I'm mentally calculating the quickest way to extract us from this disaster of an evening when she asks the question that ignites everything: "So, Camille, I’m wondering about the wine. Are you just taking a break or is there another reason?"
Camille freezes, her water glass halfway to her lips. I watch the calculation play across her face—whether to lie, deflect, or simply tell the truth. I want to jump in, to shield her from this moment, but I know it's not my place to answer.
"I'm pregnant," Camille says finally.
Kate's expression shifts, surprise quickly masked by something more analytical. Her eyes dart between Julian and me, clearly trying to determine which of us is the father.
"Fourteen weeks along," Camille continues, her voice gaining strength. "And before you ask, no, it's not Tristan's baby. Or Julian's."
"I see," Kate says after a moment, her lawyer's face settling into place. "And the father is...?"
"Not part of the picture," I interject, unwilling to let this interrogation continue.
Julian shifts in his chair. "But he knows about the baby now."
Kate's eyes narrow. "Now? As in, he didn't know before?"
"It's complicated," Camille says, her hands dropping beneath the table.
I reach for Camille's hand under the table, squeezing it gently in silent support. She returns the pressure, a small gesture that feels enormous in the charged atmosphere.
"Complicated," Kate repeats, the word like ice on her tongue. "So you're carrying another man's child while involved with my brother and Julian."
Camille's face pales, but her chin remains lifted.
"Kate, enough," I snap, my patience finally breaking. "You've made your disapproval crystal clear."
