Updated Nov 1, 2025 • ~12 min read
Eleanor was waiting in the sitting room when they returned from Dr. Harrison’s office.
She’d set out tea service on the coffee table—delicate china cups, a pot of something that smelled like ginger and mint, small sandwiches arranged on a tiered stand. The afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything look warm, inviting, safe.
Camille knew better than to trust any of it.
“Sit, dear.” Eleanor gestured to the sofa, already pouring. “I had Cook prepare a special tonic. Ginger root, peppermint, a touch of honey. It’s what my mother gave me when I was carrying Nicholas. Worked wonders for morning sickness.”
Nicholas’s hand tightened on Camille’s elbow—a warning she didn’t need. Everything about this felt wrong. Eleanor being solicitous, Eleanor playing concerned mother-in-law, Eleanor offering remedies like she actually cared about Camille’s wellbeing.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Camille said, settling onto the sofa. “But I’m feeling better now.”
“Nonsense. Prevention is key.” Eleanor pressed a teacup into Camille’s hands. The liquid inside was pale green, steaming, the scent of ginger almost overwhelming. “Drink. It’ll help settle your stomach and provide nutrients for the baby. If there is a baby.”
The emphasis on “if” felt deliberate. Camille looked down at the tonic, then up at Eleanor’s carefully neutral expression.
“Mother, maybe Camille should rest,” Nicholas said, still standing. “Dr. Harrison said to avoid stress.”
“Tea is hardly stressful.” Eleanor’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Unless there’s a reason she shouldn’t drink it?”
The challenge was clear. Refuse the tea, and Eleanor would know something was wrong. Drink it, and—what? Camille had no idea what was in that cup besides ginger and mint.
She raised the cup to her lips, maintaining eye contact with Eleanor. The liquid was hot, bitter beneath the honey sweetness, with an aftertaste she couldn’t quite identify. Something herbal. Something sharp.
“Good girl.” Eleanor settled back in her chair, watching Camille like a scientist observing an experiment. “Drink it all. The full cup is most effective.”
Camille drank, forcing herself to swallow despite every instinct screaming at her to stop. The tonic burned going down, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. She finished the cup and set it down, proud that her hands didn’t shake.
“There.” Eleanor’s smile widened. “You’ll feel the benefits within a few hours. My mother swore by it. Drank it every day of both her pregnancies.”
“Thank you.” Camille stood, suddenly desperate to get away from Eleanor’s calculating gaze. “I think I will go rest now.”
“Of course. Nicholas, make sure she stays in bed. No exertion.” Eleanor began clearing the tea service. “I’ll have Cook prepare a light dinner for you both. Bland foods are best for sensitive stomachs.”
Nicholas practically pulled Camille out of the room. They didn’t speak until they were back in their suite, door locked, windows closed.
“What the hell was in that?” Nicholas’s voice was low, urgent.
“I don’t know.” Camille moved to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing water on her face. The metallic taste wouldn’t go away. “But your mother was watching me like she expected something to happen.”
“Maybe it was just tea. Maybe she’s actually trying to help—”
“Your mother doesn’t help. She tests.” Camille dried her face, catching Nicholas’s eye in the mirror. “You said it yourself. Everything she does is strategic. That tea was something, Nicholas. I just don’t know what.”
“You should try to throw it up.”
“And have the staff report to Eleanor that I was vomiting? That would just confirm the pregnancy story.” Camille moved to the bed, suddenly exhausted. “I’m probably being paranoid. It was probably exactly what she said—ginger and mint and honey.”
“Probably,” Nicholas agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced.
Camille lay down, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Her stomach felt warm, almost too warm, like something was spreading through her system. Maybe it was just the hot liquid. Maybe it was stress and fear manifesting as physical symptoms.
“I’m going to work from here today,” Nicholas said, pulling his laptop from his bag. “In case you need anything.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m staying.” His tone left no room for argument.
An hour passed. Then two. Camille dozed fitfully, her dreams full of Eleanor’s watchful eyes and teacups that never emptied. When she woke, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the room.
And her stomach was on fire.
“Nicholas.” Her voice came out as a croak.
He was beside her in seconds. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t feel—” The nausea hit like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. Camille barely made it to the bathroom before she was violently sick, her body trying to expel everything in her stomach.
Nicholas held her hair back, his hand steady on her shoulder as she retched again and again. When there was nothing left to bring up, the cramping started—sharp, vicious pain that doubled her over.
“Jesus Christ.” Nicholas grabbed his phone. “I’m calling Dr. Harrison.”
“No.” Camille managed to grab his wrist. “No doctors. She’ll know.”
“Know what? That she poisoned you?” Nicholas’s face was white. “Because that’s what this is, Camille. That tea—”
“Wasn’t poisoned.” Camille forced herself to breathe through the pain. “Not lethally, anyway. Just enough to make me sick. Just enough to test if I was actually nauseous this morning or if I was lying.”
Understanding dawned in Nicholas’s eyes. “She was testing you.”
“She’s always testing.” Another wave of nausea hit, and Camille gripped the toilet bowl. “This is her message. She knows I’m lying about the pregnancy, or she suspects, and this is her way of telling me she knows.”
“That’s insane. She could have seriously hurt you.”
“But she didn’t. She measured it perfectly—enough to cause symptoms, not enough to do permanent damage.” Camille’s laugh was bitter, painful. “Your mother doesn’t make mistakes, Nicholas. This is exactly what she intended.”
The cramping continued for another hour. Nicholas sat with her on the bathroom floor, bringing water that she couldn’t keep down, cold cloths for her forehead, steady presence when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
Finally, the worst of it passed. Camille felt wrung out, hollow, like every ounce of energy had been purged from her body along with Eleanor’s toxic tonic.
“We need to leave,” Nicholas said quietly. “Get you out of this house before she does something worse.”
“There’s nowhere to go.” Camille leaned against the bathtub, too tired to move. “My mother’s house is about to be foreclosed on. Your apartment is under your mother’s control. We have no money except what she’s already given us.”
“I have friends. Places we could stay.”
“And the moment we leave, she cuts off everything. No money, no inheritance, no way to pay my mother’s debts.” Camille closed her eyes. “We’re trapped, Nicholas. That’s the point. She’s showing us exactly how trapped we are.”
A knock on the suite door made them both freeze.
“Nicholas? Camille?” Eleanor’s voice, dripping with false concern. “I wanted to check on you. See if the tonic helped.”
Nicholas stood, his jaw tight with rage. “Don’t answer. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
But Camille knew Eleanor wouldn’t leave without confirmation. She forced herself to stand, moving to the door on shaking legs. Nicholas tried to stop her, but she shook her head.
She opened the door just enough for Eleanor to see her face—pale, sweating, exactly what someone with severe morning sickness would look like.
“I’ve been resting,” Camille said, her voice hoarse. “The tonic… it’s very strong.”
Eleanor’s eyes swept over her, taking in every detail. “Too strong? You look quite ill.”
“Just the symptoms getting worse. You said it would help.”
“I said it would help if you were truly pregnant.” Eleanor’s smile was cold. “But if you were experiencing false symptoms, manufactured illness, the herbs would have a very different effect. They’re quite reactive to deception.”
The admission hung in the air between them. Eleanor had known. Had suspected. And had deliberately given Camille something that would expose a lie—or punish it.
“I’m not lying,” Camille forced out.
“Aren’t you?” Eleanor stepped closer, and Camille had to fight not to retreat. “Because here’s what I know, dear. I know you and Nicholas sleep in separate rooms. I know the sheets in his bed are disturbed but never actually slept in for more than a few hours. I know you panic every time I mention family planning. And I know that tonic I gave you would only cause severe illness if there was no pregnancy to support.”
Camille’s heart hammered. “The blood work isn’t back yet. Dr. Harrison said—”
“Dr. Harrison is a sentimental old man who can be swayed by my son’s pleading.” Eleanor’s voice was soft, deadly. “But I don’t need blood work to know the truth. Your body just told me everything I needed to know.”
“Mother, that’s enough.” Nicholas appeared behind Camille, his hand protective on her shoulder. “Whether Camille is pregnant or not, making her sick is unacceptable.”
“Is it?” Eleanor’s gaze shifted to him. “I gave her a traditional remedy, the same one given to pregnant women in our family for generations. If she reacted poorly, perhaps that says more about her condition than about my intentions.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Of course I did.” Eleanor’s mask of concern dropped entirely. “I’m dying, Nicholas. I don’t have time to wait for nature to take its course or for you two to get your act together. If there’s going to be an heir, I need to know now. And if there isn’t—” She looked at Camille with something almost like pity. “Then we need to discuss other arrangements.”
“What kind of arrangements?” Camille’s voice was barely a whisper.
“The kind that ensure the Ashton legacy continues.” Eleanor stepped back, smoothing down her skirt. “Get some rest, Camille. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better. When you’re ready to be honest.”
She walked away, her footsteps measured and calm, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of her perfume and the certainty that she held all the cards.
Nicholas closed the door, leaning against it. “We have to tell her the truth.”
“Which truth? That the marriage is fake? That we’ve been lying from the beginning? That there will never be an heir?” Camille moved back to the bed, every muscle aching. “Any of those truths destroys everything.”
“She already suspects. You just said—”
“Suspecting and knowing are different. As long as there’s doubt, we have room to maneuver.” Camille lay down, pulling the blanket over her shaking body. “Five more days until the blood work comes back. That’s what Dr. Harrison said. Five days to figure out our next move.”
“And then what?”
“Then we tell her the pregnancy test was negative. That we were hopeful but wrong. And we keep trying. Keep performing. Keep surviving.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes.” Camille closed her eyes, feeling the weight of Eleanor’s sapphire ring on her finger, the residual cramping in her stomach, the exhaustion of maintaining lies upon lies. “Your mother wants to break us, Nicholas. She wants to prove we’re not strong enough for this family. Every test, every manipulation, every poisoned cup of tea—it’s all designed to make us quit.”
“Maybe we should quit.”
“Maybe.” Camille opened her eyes, meeting his. “But not today. Today she wins if we quit. And I’m too stubborn to let her win.”
Nicholas smiled, sad and proud at once. “You’re more like her than you realize.”
“God, I hope not.”
He sat beside her on the bed, not touching, just present. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For dragging you into this. For underestimating how far she’d go.”
“You didn’t drag me. I walked in with my eyes open. I just didn’t realize how dark it would be inside.”
They sat in silence as the sun set outside, painting the room in shades of amber and shadow. Somewhere in the house, Eleanor was probably making notes, planning her next test, calculating how to push them further.
But for now, in this moment, they had survived. Camille had passed Eleanor’s test, even if passing meant being sick enough to prove she wasn’t faking. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“Nicholas?” Camille’s voice was quiet in the darkness. “That tonic. What was really in it?”
He was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know. But I remember my mother using something similar on Blair when she first married Reed. Blair was sick for days. She moved out two weeks later.”
“Your mother has done this before.”
“She has a whole arsenal of tests. Ways of proving who’s strong enough to stay and who should leave.” His hand found hers in the darkness. “You passed, Camille. Whatever was in that tea, however sick it made you—you passed.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yeah.” Nicholas squeezed her hand. “Lucky us.”
But neither of them felt lucky. They felt trapped, tested, pushed to their limits by a dying woman who wanted to ensure her legacy at any cost.
Even if that cost was everything.
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