Something breaks open inside me, releasing a flood of emotion I'm completely unprepared for. This isn't just something that’s going to happen in the future. This is real. This is our child, growing inside Camille, heart beating with determined insistence.
"That's..." My voice breaks, and I have to clear my throat to continue. "That's our baby?"
The doctor smiles. "That's your baby. Strong heartbeat, right on target for eighteen weeks."
I look at Camille and find her watching me, something unreadable in her expression. For the first time, I don't care how vulnerable I appear. Don't care that there are tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. All that matters is this moment, this sound, this miracle that we've created together.
The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. I'm aware of the doctor talking, of Camille responding, but my focus keeps returning to that heartbeat, still echoing in my ears long after the device is put away.
Outside the building, Camille turns to me, her expression guarded but no longer hostile. "So now you know. Everything's fine."
"Thank you," I say simply. "For letting me be there."
She nods, already turning to leave.
"Camille." I catch her elbow gently, releasing it immediately when she stiffens. "Have dinner with me. Please. Just to talk."
"Alexander—"
"It's not a date," I clarify quickly. "I just want a chance to explain. To apologize properly. An hour of your time, that's all I'm asking."
She studies me for a long moment, suspicion warring with something else in her eyes.
"Just to talk. I promise," I confirm. "Whatever restaurant you choose. Whenever you're free."
She takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. "Fine. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. That Italian place on Ninth."
Relief floods through me. It's not forgiveness. It's not reconciliation. But it's something. A chance. More than I had this morning.
"I'll be there," I promise, watching as she walks away, her ponytail swinging with each determined step. The sound of our baby's heartbeat still pulses in my memory, a rhythm I suspect I'll never forget.
The restaurant is quiet, candlelight casting soft shadows across the white tablecloth between us. Camille sits across from me, her fingers playing with the stem of her water glass, her eyes meeting mine only in brief glances before darting away again.
She looks beautiful—her hair loose around her shoulders, her blouse a deep green that makes her eyes appear almost turquoise in this light. We've made it through appetizers with careful small talk, stepping around the land mines of her pregnancy. Not comfortable, exactly, but not the frozen hostility I'd feared either.
"How's the pasta?" I ask, nodding toward her barely-touched plate of gnocchi.
"It's good." She takes a small bite as if to prove it. "The sauce is interesting—sage and something else."
"Brown butter," I suggest, remembering the menu description. "With nutmeg."
She nods, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "You always notice details."
It's such a small thing, this almost-compliment, but it feels like progress. Since yesterday's doctor's appointment, something has shifted between us. Not forgiveness, not yet, but a crack in the wall she's built against me. I want to pry that crack wider, to find my way back to the woman who once looked at me with desire instead of distrust.
"I've been thinking a lot about the appointment yesterday," I say carefully, setting down my fork. "Hearing the heartbeat. It made everything... real, in a way it wasn't before."
Camille's eyes lift to meet mine, holding my gaze longer this time. "That happens for a lot of parents. Especially fathers. You don't feel the physical changes, so the heartbeat is often the first concrete connection."
"It was... overwhelming." I search for the right words, unusual territory for a man who prides himself on precise language. "I didn't expect to feel so much."
Something softens in her expression. "That's normal too."
We're veering into dangerous waters now, away from the safe topics of restaurant recommendations, work projects and weather observations. But I push forward, needing to say the words I've rehearsed in my head.
"Camille, I want to apologize. Not just for that day in my office with Fiona, but for everything before it. For pushing you away. For not answering your messages." I take a breath, steadying myself. "For making you think you'd have to do this alone."
She stares at me, surprise evident in the slight parting of her lips. Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
