I should have followed her immediately. Should have set things straight. Instead, I'd stayed to deal with Fiona, and by the time I reached the street, Camille was gone.
I check the time. It's just past noon. A thought forms, dangerous and impulsive. I know from one of Julian's offhand comments that Camille has a doctor’s appointment today at 12:30.
"Change of plans," I tell my driver. "Take me to Manhattan Women's Health Center."
It's a risk. Probably an invasion of privacy. Definitely a move that could backfire spectacularly. But two weeks of silence have pushed me past the point of careful calculation. I need to see her. Need to make her understand that I'm not walking away again.
I position myself near the entrance of the medical building, checking my watch every few minutes, simultaneously hoping to see Camille and dreading her reaction when I do. People stream in and out—women of all ages, some with partners, some alone.
And then, suddenly, there she is.
She exits a cab, turning toward the building. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, her face free of makeup. She'swearing a loose-fitting dress that skims over her body, and even from this distance I can see the slight curve of her stomach. Our child. The reality of it hits me all over again, leaving me breathless.
I step forward, directly into her path. Her steps falter as she spots me, those blue eyes widening in surprise before narrowing with what might be anger or resignation or both.
"Alexander." My name on her lips sounds like the period at the end of a sentence. Final. Dismissive.
"Camille." I fight to keep my voice steady. "Please don't walk away."
"What are you doing here?" She glances at the building entrance, then back at me. "How did you even know?—"
"Lucky guess." The lie comes easily, but the flicker in her eyes tells me she doesn't believe it. "You have an appointment?"
She sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Yes, and I'm going to be late, so if you'll excuse me?—"
"Let me come with you." The words tumble out before I can consider them properly. "Please."
She stares at me like I've suggested something outrageous. Maybe I have. "Why would I do that?"
I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "Because it's my child too. Because I want to be involved. Because I've spent weeks trying to tell you how sorry I am."
Something shifts in her expression—a small crack in the armor she's constructed against me. She checks her watch, then looks back at me with those eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. "I just... I want to be there. To understand what's happening. To see our baby."
The word "our" hangs between us, heavy with implication. For a long moment, she says nothing, just studies my face likeshe's trying to read something written in fine print. Finally, she gives a small nod.
"Fine. But don't say anything unless the doctor asks you a direct question." She turns and walks toward the entrance, not checking to see if I'm following.
The waiting room is softly lit, decorated in calming blues and greens. Camille gives her name to the receptionist, who tells us to have a seat. We sit side by side, not touching, not speaking. I can feel the tension radiating from her, see it in the way she sits perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap.
I want to say something, anything to break this painful silence between us, but I force myself to respect her boundaries. This small allowance—letting me accompany her—is huge. I won't jeopardize it with unnecessary words that may piss her off.
When the nurse calls her name, Camille stands quickly. She doesn't look back as she follows the woman through a door, but she doesn't object when I fall into step behind her.
The examination room is small, making our careful distance harder to maintain. Camille sits on the edge of the padded table, and I take the single chair in the corner, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible.
The doctor—a woman in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes—enters a few minutes later. She greets Camille warmly before turning a questioning gaze toward me.
"This is Alexander," Camille says, her voice carefully neutral. "The father."
I reach out my hand and introduce myself. “Alexander Kingsley.”
The appointment proceeds with questions about symptoms, measurements, diet and sleep patterns. I listen intently, filing away each detail: the slight anemia that needs monitoring, the recommendation for more calcium, the gentle reminderto rest more. Through it all, Camille answers calmly, barely acknowledging my presence.
And then the doctor pulls out a small device, applying gel to Camille's exposed stomach. "Let's check on this little one, shall we?"
At first, there's nothing but static. Then, suddenly, the room fills with a rapid, rhythmic whooshing sound—fast, strong, alive. The baby's heartbeat. Our baby's heartbeat.
