Lila stilled. The casual cruelty in his voice made her stomach turn. She opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. It was unmistakable. This situation radiated risk. She didn’t want to add to her daughter’s predicament—a dilemma that was clarifying by the moment.
Camille’s face burned red, but she didn’t immediately respond. Across from her, Claudia lifted her martini glass to her lips, eyes glittering with approval.
Pete hesitated, his hand tightening around the order pad. His gaze flicked to Camille, waiting to see if she’d correct Blaine.
And Lord help her, despite her promise, Lila was about two seconds away from doing it for her.
Camille inhaled sharply, then straightened. “I’ll actually have a grilled chicken sandwich,” she said, voice steady. “And fries.”
Blaine’s jaw ticked. “Camille.”
“What?” She folded her arms, her chin lifting just slightly, just enough for Lila to see the spark of defiance underneath the careful control.
Blaine exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if she’d disappointed him. “Fine. But don’t complain later when your jeans don’t fit.”
Claudia chuckled softly, like this was all so amusing.
Pete jotted the order down and walked off without waiting for another word. Knowing Pastor Pete like she did, he was likely sending up a much-needed prayer.
Lila felt heat build under her collar, a familiar anger pressing in. She’d seen this before—the way some men disguised control as care, wrapped it in neat little packages of “concern” and “looking out for you.”
It wasn’t care. It was power.
Camille sat perfectly still for a long moment, her fingers white-knuckling the edge of the table. Then, slowly, she reached for her water, took a careful sip, and met Blaine’s gaze with a steadiness that made Lila’s chest tighten.
“You know what, Blaine?” Camille set the glass down, her voice quiet but unwavering. “You don’t have to worry about what I eat ever again.”
Blaine frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Camille reached for her purse, pushed back her chair, and stood. “It means I’m done.”
Lila’s breath caught.
Blaine blinked, as if the words didn’t register. “Camille?—?”
But she was already walking, her back straight, her steps sure, heading for the door with more confidence than Lila had ever seen her carry before.
For a second, the whole bar seemed to hold its breath.
Then Lila exhaled, a slow smile creeping up the corners of her mouth.
Atta girl.
Claudia lifted her martini glass, took a measured sip, and turned away as if the entire room no longer held anything of interest.
Lila had had enough. She stood and let her napkin fall to the table.
“I suggest you sit down,” Claudia told her.
“I beg your pardon?”
Claudia reached in her Louis Vuitton bag and retrieved a sealed envelope. She slid it across the table in Lila’s direction. “Inside is the name and contact information for my attorney. He’s drawn up relinquishment papers, which Blaine will sign.” She gave a pointed look. “Provided your daughter signs the NDA clause—and agrees to the nondisclosure of my son as father. She will not put Blaine’s name on the birth certificate and will maintain complete discretion, not revealing his name or claiming paternity. There is also a check in a generous amount.” Then, she added, “In case Camille still wants to change her mind.”
Lila gasped. “She’s nearly five months along.”
Claudia shrugged before lowering her voice. “These things can be safely arranged.”
Lila shook her head vehemently. “No. She’s already made her decision.”
