14
CAMILLE
I watched them take Zainab away.
The CO gripped her arm too tight, yanking her up from the chair like she was cattle. She didn’t fight it. Just stood, one hand instinctively cradling her belly, protecting the life inside her even as they cuffed her wrists behind her back.
Seven months pregnant. Glowing despite the fluorescent lights and the ugly orange jumpsuit. Her hand never left her stomach—rubbing slow circles, soothing the baby even when no one was there to soothe her.
Something in my chest ached.
I gathered my legal pad and bag, watching until she disappeared through the door. The last thing I saw was her belly. Round. Full. Perfect.
I wanted that.
God, I wanted that so bad it made my teeth hurt.
Thirty-four years old.
Howard Law. Top of my class. Partner track at one of the most prestigious firms in DC before I went solo. I had the career. The money. The respect. I had a man who loved me and a woman who completed me.
But I didn’t have a baby.
And lately, that was all I could think about.
It started small. Noticing pregnant women on the street. Lingering too long in the baby section at Target. Scrolling through nursery designs on Pinterest at 2 AM when I couldn’t sleep.
Now it was a full-blown obsession. My womb ached every time I saw a mother with her child. My arms felt empty. My body felt like it was screaming at me—time is running out, time is running out, time is running out.
Thirty-four. Not old. But not young either. Not when it came to fertility. Not when every year that passed made it harder, riskier, less certain.
I wanted to be somebody’s mother before it was too late.
I met Lyric first.
My girl Tasha dragged me to a burlesque show in Adams Morgan. Some underground spot where women performed pole and dance routines that were more art than strip club. I didn’t want to go—had briefs to write, depositions to prep—but Tasha wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“You need to loosen up,” she said. “All you do is work.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The venue was intimate. Low lighting, velvet curtains, small tables crowded around a stage. The energy was sensual but sophisticated—women of all sizes and shades celebrating their bodies without apology.
And then Lyric took the stage.
She moved like water. Like music had a physical form and decided to inhabit her body. The pole was just an extension of her—spinning, climbing, defying gravity in ways that made my breath catch. But it wasn’t just the athleticism. It was the way she commanded the room. The way every eye was locked on her and she knew it.
When she finished, I couldn’t stop staring.
Tasha caught me looking. “Go talk to her.”
“I don’t even know if she?—”
“Girl. Go.”
I found her at the bar afterward, still glowing from the performance, a silk robe thrown over her costume. Up close, she was even more stunning. Brown skin. Full lips. Natural hair pulled up in a puff. Eyes that saw right through me.
“You were incredible,” I said. Smooth, Camille. Real smooth.
