"Alexander? What a coincidence!"
My stomach drops. Fiona stands beside our table, dressed in a black sheath dress that clings to every curve, her smile sharp as an alligator’s. Her eyes flick to Camille with calculated surprise.
"And Camille! My goodness, what a small world." She places a proprietary hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly. "I was just meeting clients for drinks at the bar, and I saw you over here, Alex."
The muscles in my jaw tighten as I shift away from her touch. "Fiona. We're in the middle of dinner."
Either she doesn't hear the dismissal in my tone or she chooses to ignore it. Her hand slides down my arm in a gesture that's deliberately intimate. "I won't interrupt for long. Just wanted to say hello and remind you about our breakfast meeting tomorrow."
Across the table, I watch Camille's face close like a steel door, all the tentative openness of moments before vanishing behind a mask of polite indifference. She sets her napkin beside her plate and reaches for her purse.
"Actually, I was just leaving," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Early day tomorrow."
"Camille, wait—" I begin, but she's already standing.
"Thank you for dinner, Alexander." Her eyes won't meet mine now. "Good to see you again, Fiona."
The lie is so obvious it almost makes me wince. Fiona's smile widens, triumph gleaming in her eyes. "Don't rush off on my account," she says, the false concern in her voice almost comical in its transparency.
But Camille is already moving toward the exit, her pace just short of running. I stand abruptly, not caring that the motion nearly knocks Fiona off balance.
"There is no breakfast meeting," I tell her coldly. "And this wasn't a coincidence. Don't contact me again—personally or professionally."
I throw enough cash on the table to cover the bill and hurry after Camille, weaving between tables with none of my usual composure. By the time I reach the sidewalk, she's already half a block away, walking briskly in the direction of the nearest subway station.
"Camille!" I call, breaking into a jog to catch up with her. "Camille, please wait!"
She doesn't slow down, doesn't turn. Her shoulders are rigid her dress, her steps determined. I reach her just before she hits the corner, my hand catching her elbow gently.
"Don't touch me," she says, pulling away sharply. "I'm done with this, Alexander. Done with the games."
"It's not what you think," I say, moving to stand in front of her, blocking her path without touching her. "Fiona and I aren't together. We've never been together."
Her laugh is bitter. "Right. She just happens to be everywhere you are, touching you like she owns you."
"She wants people to think exactly what you're thinking right now," I explain, desperation making my voice rougher than intended. "She's been trying to get her hooks into me for years. But there's nothing between us, Camille. Nothing."
"It doesn't matter." She tries to step around me, but I move with her, still blocking her path without touching her. "Let me go, Alexander."
"I can't." The words come out raw, stripped of all pretense. "I can't let you go again. It was the biggest mistake I've ever made."
That stops her. She looks at me fully now, suspicion warring with something else in her eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about us. About how I pushed you away because I was scared. Scared of how you made me feel, scared of needing someone, scared of turning into my father." The confessions pour out of me, unstoppable now that I've begun. "I convinced myself it was better to end things before they got complicated. Before you got hurt. But all I did was hurt both of us."
Her expression shifts, disbelief replacing anger. "You expect me to believe that? After months of silence?"
"I don't expect you to believe anything," I say, running a hand through my hair in a gesture of frustration I'd never allow myself in normal circumstances. "But Iamtelling you the truth. Finally."
People pass around us on the sidewalk, a few curious glances thrown our way, but I barely notice them. My entire focus is on Camille's face, on the way her eyes search mine as if looking for the lie.
"I haven't stopped thinking about you," I continue, my voice dropping lower, meant for her ears alone. "Not for a single day. I told myself it was just physical, that I'd get over it. But I was wrong, Camille. So wrong."
She shakes her head slightly, arms wrapping around herself as if for protection. "Why are you saying all this now? Because of the baby?"
"No." I take a step toward her, stopping when she tenses. "The baby changed things, yes. Made me realize I couldn't keep pretending. But this isn't about obligation or responsibility. It's about you. About how I feel when I'm with you. About how empty everything feels when I'm not."
A taxi honks nearby, the sound jarring in the emotional space we've created on this busy sidewalk. Camille startles from the noise.
