My Two Billionaire Husbands: A Plan for Revenge-Chapter 245: Good Times Will Come

"Cammy!"

Eve’s voice pierced through the thick haze clouding Cammy’s mind, snapping her out of the daze that had consumed her.

She blinked rapidly, realizing she was still standing there, still staring at the spot where Greg had disappeared moments ago—where a piece of her heart still felt nailed to the ground.

"Huh?" she uttered weakly, her voice thin, as if it barely belonged to her anymore.

Eve rushed to her side, concern etched all over her face. "Gosh, we’ve been calling you over and over," she said, a touch of scolding wrapped in tenderness. She shoved a small bottle into Cammy’s hands. "Here. Mrs. Moore asked me to give this to you. It’s soya milk—good for the baby."

The word baby cut through Cammy’s fog like a blade.

Automatically, without thinking, her other hand drifted protectively to her stomach. She stared down at herself for a long, heavy second before whispering in a trembling voice, "Right... I’m pregnant. I almost forgot."

Eve’s face twisted in horror.

"Hey! Don’t say that!" she scolded, her tone sharper now. "It’s not something you ever forget, Cammy. This baby... this life inside you... it’s everything now."

Before Cammy could respond, Ric approached, his voice steady but full of concern.

"You mentioned back in Arlon that you’d visit your doctor here. When are you planning to go for a check-up? I’ll go with you."

"Tomorrow... after work," she replied, feeling the exhaustion settle deeper into her bones.

"That’s right, Ric," Eve said quickly, glancing at Cammy with pointed urgency. "Make sure she goes. Don’t let her brush it off or ’forget’ again."

Cammy gave a soft, bitter chuckle and shook her head.

"I won’t," she promised, a tired smile ghosting her lips. "I’ve just been... so physically drained, and emotionally... wrecked." Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the tears she was fighting to hold back.

Eve softened, stepping closer.

"Of course you are, Cammy... You’re carrying so much more than a baby right now. You’re carrying broken dreams, shattered promises... and hope all at once. It’s a heavy thing."

Ric placed a comforting hand on Cammy’s shoulder before saying, "I’ll go call Dylan. We should head upstairs and let you get some rest."

He turned and disappeared back inside the restaurant.

Cammy and Eve watched him go, the space he left behind feeling strangely empty for a moment.

"You know..." Eve murmured, nudging Cammy gently with her shoulder and offering a sly smile, "Ric’s not a bad option at all. He really isn’t."

Cammy let out a small, hollow laugh, the sound brittle at the edges.

"I know," she whispered, almost to herself. "My mind knows it better than anything. It’s just..." She paused, her voice dipping lower, heavy with unspoken grief. "I have a stupid heart, remember?"

Eve didn’t laugh at the joke.

Instead, she wrapped her arm tightly around Cammy’s shoulders and pulled her close, letting her lean into the silence where words weren’t enough.

And for a moment, Cammy allowed herself to be held—just a broken woman trying to piece herself back together, one breath, one heartbeat, at a time.

"Good times will come, Cammy. Good times will come," Eve whispered fiercely, like a prayer she was willing into the universe, just as Ric reappeared carrying Dylan, followed by the soft chatter of the others.

Mr. Moore clapped his hands lightly to catch everyone’s attention.

"I hope you all had a wonderful lunch," he said, his voice warm with pride.

Cammy forced herself to pull together the scattered pieces of her heart. This time, her smile was genuine, albeit a little fragile around the edges.

"Of course, Mr. Moore. Your cooking is something I missed so much when we were stuck in that temporary apartment. Now that we’re back, I’ll get to have more of it again," she said, her voice carrying a tremor of longing—longing for normalcy, for comfort, for something stable to hold onto.

Mr. Moore chuckled warmly, but then his expression shifted slightly, a trace of seriousness peeking through.

"But... you’ll be married in two weeks. Will you still stay in the rooftop apartment after that?" the old man asked, his tone gentle, but the question cut through Cammy like a blade.

Caught completely off guard, Cammy’s throat tightened.

"I—I..." she stammered, struggling to form the words. They stuck like thorns in her throat, a painful reminder of how many things were happening at once—things she hadn’t even allowed herself to fully feel yet.

Ric reached out and gave her back a firm, reassuring rub, grounding her like an anchor in a stormy sea.

"We haven’t really talked about it yet," Ric said, stepping in smoothly. "Everything’s moving so fast, we honestly haven’t finalized anything. We’re just trying to keep up for now."

Cammy turned to him, her heart aching with gratitude, and offered a small, knowing smile. Their eyes locked for a fleeting second—a silent exchange that spoke louder than words: Thank you.

Mr. Moore’s deep, nostalgic laugh rumbled from his chest.

"You’re right, son. That’s exactly how it was for me and my wife," he said, glancing toward the kitchen where Mrs. Moore was cleaning up. His eyes softened with memory.

"I was terrified of losing her, so I married her right away. We didn’t have a plan, didn’t know where we would live, how we would build a life... we just had each other. And look at us now."

He smiled, a lifetime of love written in the lines on his face. "I’m sure you’ll figure it out too, just like we did."

The words sank into Cammy’s soul, heavy and bittersweet.

The mood is lighter now, touched with a sense of hope and new beginnings.

Cammy lingered a moment, watching the simple scene—the people who, somehow, had become part of her patchwork family. A strange warmth bloomed inside her chest, battling the sadness that still clung to her.

Eventually, they all headed back to their apartments upstairs, footsteps echoing against the walls, soft goodbyes filling the air.

As Cammy followed them, she felt the weight of everything pressing down on her again—the choices, the unknown future, the stubborn ache left by a man who had asked her, with broken eyes, ’Spare me, don’t invite me.’

And still, she climbed the stairs.

One step at a time.

Carrying hope in one hand... and heartbreak in the other.