Updated Nov 1, 2025 • ~15 min read
Sunday morning breakfast was usually torture, but today Camille was grateful for the routine. It gave her something to focus on besides the churning anxiety in her stomach.
Eleanor sat at the head of the dining table, perfectly composed in a cream cashmere sweater, reading the Wall Street Journal. Nicholas was absorbed in his phone, probably reviewing business emails. The staff moved silently, pouring coffee and setting out pastries that no one would eat.
Camille pushed scrambled eggs around her plate, her mind still replaying last night’s conversation with Nicholas. They’d spent three hours in his bedroom, coordinating their story about “trying” for a baby. The lies had piled up so high she’d almost suffocated under them.
“You’re not eating.” Eleanor’s voice cut through Camille’s thoughts.
She looked up to find Eleanor watching her with those calculating eyes. “I’m not very hungry.”
“You barely touched dinner last night either.” Eleanor set down her newspaper with surgical precision. “Are you feeling well?”
It was the opening Camille hadn’t known she was looking for. A way to buy time, to explain future absences from meals, to create a narrative that might satisfy Eleanor’s obsession with heirs.
The lie formed before she could think it through. “Actually, I’ve been feeling a bit off the past few mornings. Nauseous.”
Nicholas’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with alarm. He hadn’t known she was going to do this. They hadn’t planned this.
But Eleanor’s expression shifted—just slightly, just enough. The calculating look softened into something that might have been hope. “How long has this been going on?”
“A few days. Maybe a week?” Camille set down her fork, committing to the performance. “I thought it was just stress, adjusting to everything. But this morning it was worse. The smell of coffee made me—” She pressed her hand to her mouth, letting her voice trail off.
“Oh my God.” Eleanor stood, moving around the table with surprising speed. Her hand landed on Camille’s shoulder—warm, gentle, so unlike her usual touch that Camille almost flinched. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I didn’t want to make assumptions. It’s probably nothing.”
“Or it’s something.” Eleanor’s grip tightened. “When was your last period?”
The question was invasive, inappropriate, exactly what Camille should have expected. She did the math quickly in her head, trying to make the timeline work. “Three weeks? Maybe four. I haven’t been tracking carefully.”
“Nicholas.” Eleanor turned to her son, her voice sharp with command. “When did you two—” She stopped, recalibrating. “How long have you been trying?”
Nicholas looked like he wanted to disappear into his chair. “Mother, I don’t think—”
“Since the wedding,” Camille interrupted, saving him. “We haven’t been… preventing anything.”
It was technically true, since they weren’t sleeping together at all. But Eleanor didn’t need to know that.
“Three weeks.” Eleanor’s mind was clearly racing. “It’s too early for a test to be definitive, but symptoms can start immediately for some women.” She moved to the sidebar where her phone sat, already reaching for it. “I’m calling Dr. Harrison. He can see you this morning.”
Panic flared in Camille’s chest. “That’s really not necessary—”
“Of course it is.” Eleanor was already dialing. “If you’re pregnant, we need to establish proper prenatal care immediately. The first trimester is crucial.”
“Mother, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Nicholas stood, moving to Camille’s side. His hand found hers under the table, squeezing hard. A warning. “Camille’s right. It’s probably just stress.”
“Or it’s my grandchild.” Eleanor’s eyes glittered with something fierce, possessive. “Dr. Harrison? Yes, it’s Eleanor Ashton. I need an appointment this morning for my daughter-in-law. Possible early pregnancy.” A pause. “No, this morning. Cancel whatever you need to cancel. This is priority.”
She hung up, her smile triumphant. “Ten o’clock. He’ll do a full examination and blood work.”
Camille felt the trap snap shut around her. Blood work. There was no faking blood work. In three hours, a doctor would confirm what she already knew—she wasn’t pregnant, had never been pregnant, couldn’t possibly be pregnant when she and Nicholas had never even kissed, much less anything else.
“Eleanor, I really don’t think—” Camille started, but Eleanor raised one elegant hand.
“I insist. If you’re carrying an Ashton heir, we need to know. We need to protect you, protect the baby. Get you on proper vitamins, establish dietary restrictions, all of it.” She moved back to her seat, her entire demeanor transformed. “This is wonderful news. Potentially wonderful news.”
Nicholas’s hand tightened on Camille’s, his thumb rubbing circles on her palm. She could feel his panic matching her own, though his face remained carefully neutral.
“I should get dressed,” Camille said, standing on shaking legs. “If we’re going at ten.”
“Wear something comfortable. Dr. Harrison will need to examine you.” Eleanor was already making notes on her phone, probably creating lists of baby names and nursery designs. “Nicholas, you’ll drive her. I’ll meet you there.”
“You don’t need to—” Nicholas tried.
“Of course I need to.” Eleanor’s tone brooked no argument. “This is family business. If there’s a chance my grandchild is already growing, I want to be there for every step.”
Camille fled the dining room before Eleanor could see her panic. She made it to their suite before the shaking started in earnest. Nicholas was right behind her, closing the door and turning the lock.
“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was low, urgent. “You can’t fake morning sickness without thinking through the consequences.”
“I was buying time!” Camille paced the sitting room, her hands fluttering uselessly. “She’s been pressuring us about family planning ever since that list. I thought if I gave her hope, it would get her off our backs for a while.”
“And now you’ve trapped us in a lie we can’t maintain.” Nicholas ran both hands through his hair. “Blood work will show you’re not pregnant. What happens then?”
“I don’t know!” Camille’s voice rose, and she forced herself to lower it. The staff was always listening. Eleanor was always listening. “Maybe we say it was a false alarm. A chemical pregnancy. Women have them all the time.”
“And when she insists on fertility testing? On finding out why you’re not getting pregnant?” Nicholas moved closer, his eyes intense. “My mother doesn’t let things go, Camille. Once she gets an idea in her head, she pursues it relentlessly. You’ve just given her the one thing she wants most—hope for a grandchild.”
Camille sank onto the sofa, her head in her hands. He was right. She’d acted impulsively, desperately, and now they were facing a crisis neither of them had prepared for.
“We could tell her the truth,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“About the arrangement. About the fake marriage. We come clean, give back the money, and walk away.” Even as she said it, Camille knew it was impossible. Her mother’s debts were already being paid down with the upfront money. There was no walking away now.
“She’d destroy us both.” Nicholas sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. “She’d make sure I never saw a penny of the inheritance. And you—she’d make sure every debt collector in Connecticut knew exactly where to find your mother.”
“So we’re trapped.”
“We’ve always been trapped.” Nicholas leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “We just keep digging the hole deeper.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their situation pressing down on them both. Outside, Camille could hear Eleanor’s voice on the phone, probably calling family members to share the “wonderful news.”
“The doctor,” Camille said suddenly. “Dr. Harrison. How loyal is he to your mother?”
Nicholas turned to look at her. “Extremely. He’s been the family physician for thirty years. He delivered me. He was there when my father died.”
“So he’ll tell Eleanor the truth. That I’m not pregnant.”
“Absolutely.” Nicholas paused, something shifting in his expression. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we give him a reason not to.” Nicholas sat up straighter. “Dr. Harrison is loyal to my mother, yes. But he’s also a doctor. He has patient confidentiality obligations. If you went in there alone, without my mother in the room, and explained the situation—”
“You want me to tell him the truth?” Camille’s voice rose again. “Tell your family doctor that our marriage is fake?”
“No. I want you to tell him that you’re under enormous pressure from my mother. That you panicked and said you felt sick because she’s been obsessing over grandchildren. That you need him to run the tests but give you time before he reports the results to her.”
Camille stared at him. “You think that would work?”
“Dr. Harrison isn’t heartless. He knows what my mother is like.” Nicholas reached for his phone. “Let me call him before we go. Feel him out, see if he’d be willing to… delay sharing information with her.”
“That’s a huge ask.”
“It’s a temporary solution.” Nicholas was already dialing. “We tell him you need a few days to prepare for the disappointment of not being pregnant. That you’re afraid of how my mother will react. He might give us that much.”
Camille listened as Nicholas spoke in low tones to Dr. Harrison, his voice carefully measured. She couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but she watched Nicholas’s expression shift from tense to cautiously hopeful.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Yes. Thank you. We’ll see you at ten.”
He hung up, turning to Camille. “He’ll do the exam with just you in the room. My mother can wait outside. And he won’t share results immediately—he’ll say he needs to wait for blood work to come back from the lab, which can take a few days.”
“A few days.” Camille felt slightly less like she was drowning. “And then what?”
“Then we figure out our next move.” Nicholas stood, offering her his hand. “But we’ve bought ourselves time. That’s something.”
Camille took his hand, letting him pull her up. They were so close now, closer than they’d been since the wedding. She could see the fine lines around his eyes, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the fear he was trying to hide beneath his controlled exterior.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered. “Lying on top of lies, crisis after crisis. Eventually something’s going to break.”
“I know.” Nicholas’s hand came up to cup her face, the gesture so unexpected that Camille’s breath caught. “But not today. Today we survive my mother’s obsession with grandchildren. Tomorrow we deal with whatever comes next.”
His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and for a moment Camille forgot this was all pretend. Forgot that his touch was calculated, his tenderness manufactured. It felt real. It felt like someone actually cared whether she survived this or not.
“Nicholas—” she started, but he stepped back, the moment breaking like glass.
“Get dressed. Something comfortable, like she said. And try to look hopeful but cautious. We need to sell this.”
Camille nodded, moving to her bedroom. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale, frightened, young. Not at all like someone capable of pulling off a fake pregnancy scare.
She changed into soft pants and a loose sweater, then stared at herself. Her hand went to her stomach—flat, empty, never going to carry Nicholas’s child or anyone’s. Eleanor wanted an heir. The inheritance required an heir. And Camille was supposed to be the vessel for all those dreams.
Except she was empty. A fake wife in a fake marriage, playing house in someone else’s life.
At nine forty-five, they gathered in the foyer. Eleanor was already there, practically vibrating with controlled excitement. She’d changed into something more formal, as if going to a doctor’s appointment required designer clothes and perfect hair.
“Ready?” Eleanor’s smile was almost warm. Almost.
“Ready,” Camille lied.
The drive to Dr. Harrison’s office was torture. Eleanor spent the entire twenty minutes talking about prenatal vitamins and birthing centers and whether they should hire a night nurse. Nicholas drove in tense silence while Camille tried not to throw up for real.
Dr. Harrison’s office was in a building that screamed old money—brick facade, brass fixtures, a waiting room with leather chairs and classical music playing softly. The receptionist greeted Eleanor by name, ushering them immediately to an exam room.
“Mrs. Ashton—Camille—it’s lovely to meet you.” Dr. Harrison was older, gray-haired, with kind eyes that missed nothing. “Nicholas has told me so much about you.”
“I’m sure he has,” Camille managed.
“Now, Eleanor,” Dr. Harrison turned to Nicholas’s mother with practiced ease. “I’ll need to examine Camille privately. Standard procedure for these situations. You understand.”
Eleanor’s smile tightened. “Of course. I’ll wait outside.”
“Nicholas too.” Dr. Harrison’s tone was gentle but firm. “Let me do a thorough examination, and then we’ll discuss next steps.”
Nicholas caught Camille’s eye as he followed his mother out. His expression said everything: Be careful. Be convincing. Buy us time.
The door closed, leaving Camille alone with Dr. Harrison.
He didn’t speak immediately, just studied her with those knowing eyes. “Nicholas called me earlier. Explained that you’re under considerable pressure from Eleanor regarding… family planning.”
Camille nodded, not trusting her voice.
“He also suggested that you might not actually be pregnant, but felt cornered into claiming symptoms.” Dr. Harrison moved to wash his hands at the sink. “Is that accurate?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper.
“I see.” Dr. Harrison dried his hands, then turned to face her fully. “I’ve known Eleanor Ashton for three decades. I’ve watched her control and manipulate everyone around her in the name of family legacy. And I’ve seen what that does to people.” He paused. “I’m a doctor first, Camille. Which means my loyalty is to my patient’s wellbeing, not to Eleanor’s desires.”
Camille felt tears prick her eyes. “Thank you.”
“That said, I’ll need to do an examination and run blood work. Eleanor will expect a full report eventually.” He gestured to the exam table. “But I can buy you time. A few days before results come back. Maybe a week if you need it.”
“A week would help.” Camille climbed onto the table, the paper crinkling beneath her. “But eventually she’ll know the truth.”
“Eventually, yes.” Dr. Harrison began the examination—perfunctory, professional, exactly what Eleanor would expect. “But that gives you time to prepare. To decide how you want to handle the disappointment.”
The word hung in the air. Disappointment. As if not being pregnant was a personal failure rather than the inevitable result of a marriage that existed only on paper.
After the examination, Dr. Harrison took several vials of blood—more than necessary, Camille suspected, just to make the process look thorough. He made notes on his clipboard, his expression carefully neutral.
“Everything looks normal,” he said finally. “No obvious signs of pregnancy, but it’s early yet. The blood work will tell us for certain.”
“When will you have results?”
“Friday.” He met her eyes. “That gives you five days to figure out what you’re going to tell Eleanor when the results come back negative.”
“Thank you,” Camille said again, meaning it.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Dr. Harrison’s expression was grave. “I’m giving you time, Camille. But Eleanor Ashton is not a woman who accepts disappointment gracefully. When she learns there’s no pregnancy, she’ll want to know why. And she’ll pursue that question relentlessly.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Because I’ve seen her destroy people who stood in the way of what she wanted. Nicholas thinks he’s protecting you, but the best protection would be getting far away from this family.”
Before Camille could respond, he opened the door. Eleanor rushed in immediately, her expression eager and anxious.
“Well?” she demanded. “What did you find?”
“It’s too early to say definitively.” Dr. Harrison’s tone shifted to professional detachment. “I’ve taken blood samples. We’ll have results back by the end of the week. Until then, Camille should rest, stay hydrated, and avoid stress.”
“But she could be pregnant?” Eleanor pressed.
“It’s possible. We’ll know more Friday.”
Eleanor turned to Camille, and her expression was almost tender. “You need to take care of yourself. Rest, eat properly, no overexertion.” She glanced at Nicholas. “You need to take care of her.”
“I will,” Nicholas promised, his hand finding Camille’s.
They left the office with Eleanor already planning—nursery renovations, prenatal yoga classes, baby shower guest lists. She talked the entire drive home while Camille sat in silence, feeling the weight of another lie settling over her like a shroud.
Five days. They had five days to figure out how to survive Eleanor’s disappointment when the blood work came back negative.
Five days to prepare for whatever Eleanor would do when she realized the grandchild she craved wasn’t coming.
Five days before everything fell apart.
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