My billionaire ex-husband blamed me for our childless marriage and walked away—eight years later, he entered a restaurant and saw me sitting with twins who had his unmistakable eyes.

Chapter 9

Camille was already there when I arrived.

She looked different without photographers nearby. Softer. More tired. Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing a plain gray sweater, and she looked like a woman who hadn’t slept well in months.

She stood when she saw me.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I almost didn’t believe you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

We ordered coffee. For a while, we talked about harmless things — the weather, Chicago traffic, a charity project she’d joined. She was easy to talk to, which made everything harder.

Finally, I set down my cup. “Camille, why are we here?”

She wrapped both hands around her coffee.

“Dominic and I are separated,” she said.

I stared at her.

“What?”

“We have been for almost four months.”

I did the arithmetic. Four months. The restaurant had been barely a month ago.

“But you came to Albion House together,” I said. “You walked in with your hand on his arm.”

“We had a foundation dinner afterward.” Her voice was careful, precise. “Neither of us was ready to announce anything publicly.”

“So the restaurant — ”

“Was a coincidence.” She met my eyes. “We didn’t know you’d be there. That was the truth of it.”

I sat back.

A strange discomfort settled over me. “I want to be clear about something. Whatever happened with the twins — that has nothing to do with your marriage.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t going to — ”

“I know,” she said again. “But I wanted to tell you myself, because I didn’t want you to spend another eight years wondering if you’d done something wrong.”

I looked down at my coffee.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.” She paused. “Our marriage wasn’t terrible. That’s the difficult part.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. Only exhaustion.

“Dominic was kind. Generous. Loyal in the ways he understood loyalty. He never raised his voice at me. He never forgot an anniversary. He flew across oceans when I was sick.”

“But?”

She smiled sadly. “But sometimes you can be married to someone and still feel like part of them lives in a room you were never given a key to.”

I knew that room.

I had lived outside it once myself.

“Did you know about me?” I asked.

“Not at first.” She stirred her coffee. “But Dominic never talked about his first wife, which is a thing people notice. Then one night, very late, he said your name in his sleep. And I lay there in the dark and understood that I was sharing my bed with someone who was still — not in love with you, exactly. But unfinished with you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“He never did anything wrong,” Camille continued. “That was the hardest part. He was always careful with me. But care isn’t the same as being seen. And after a while, I realized I was maintaining a marriage the way I maintained my schedule — competently, and without my heart in it.”

“Did you want children?” The question escaped before I could stop it.

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet. “We tried.”

I felt something twist in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t happen. And the doctors said there was nothing wrong with either of us.” She looked at me. “That was when Dominic started asking questions. About the past. About his old medical records.”

My heart began beating faster. “He’s been looking into what happened with us.”

“He hired a man to reconstruct the timeline of your divorce.” Camille said it simply, without judgment. “He wanted to understand how a certified letter from his pregnant wife could vanish. I think he needed it to be someone’s fault. Anyone’s. Because if it was nobody’s fault — if it was just paperwork and bad timing — then the entire destruction of his first marriage had been an accident. And accidents can’t be fought.”

I stared at her.

“Have you seen what he found?” she asked.

“Some of it.”

“Then you know it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Yes.”

Camille nodded slowly. She looked through the window at the lake, gray and endless beneath the morning sky.

“I care about Dominic,” she said. “I probably always will. But caring about someone isn’t always a reason to stay married.”

I understood that better than I wanted to.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

She turned back to me. “Because he’s going to be part of your life now. Part of your children’s lives. And possibly part of yours again, in ways neither of you understands yet.”

I stiffened. “Camille — ”

“I’m not encouraging anything.” She held up a hand. “I’m asking you not to make decisions based on protecting me. I’ve spent most of my adult life being underestimated because people mistake courtesy for fragility. Please don’t do that.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Then Camille surprised me.

“I’d like to meet them someday. Your children.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because they’ve changed someone I care about.” She paused. “And because your daughter looked at that dessert menu at Albion House like she was negotiating a treaty. I admired her.”

I laughed despite myself. “She takes cake seriously.”

“I noticed.”

We parted outside the café. Camille hugged me before I could stop her, and I hugged her back, and it was strange and human and sad in ways I couldn’t name.

I was still thinking about her when my phone buzzed as I reached my car.

Dominic.

I found something tonight in the archive. It’s not the letter. But I think you should see it. Can I come by?

I stared at the message.

Now?

If that’s not too late.

I typed back one word.

Come.