I rush to the bathroom for the third time this morning, barely making it before my stomach empties itself. Again.
“Just stress,” I mutter, rinsing my mouth and staring at my pale reflection. “It’s just stress.”
There’s plenty to be stressed about. Plenty of reasons to be throwing up daily.
Except… it’s not just the vomiting.
My breasts are tender. I’m exhausted all the time. And I’m late.
Very late.
I’ve been ignoring it for days, chalking everything up to stress and maybe the lingering effects of the flu. But in the back of my mind, a terrifying possibility has been growing. Growing almost like…
“No,” I whisper to my reflection. “No, no, no.”
I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be. We’ve used protection every time.
Well, almost every time.
There was that night in his penthouse after we’d had too much wine. And the time in his office when we were in such a rush that…
Oh, God.
I grip the edge of the sink, suddenly light-headed. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not with everything else going on. Not with Vince.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the closed toilet lid, staring at a plastic stick. And on that stick…
Two lines.
Two pink, unmistakable, life-altering lines.
“Fuck,” I whisper. The word sounds so meek and miserable in my tiny bathroom.
I take a second test just to be sure. Same result.
Pregnant.
With Vincent Akopov’s child.
The man who kills people who get in his way. The man with a gun in his drawer, with a secretary bent over on his desk, with blood on his knuckles and violence in his eyes.
The man I’m hopelessly, stupidly in love with, despite knowing he’ll never love me back.
I slide to the floor, knees drawn up to my chest, and let the tears come.
What am I going to do? Keep it? End it? Tell him? Not tell him?
My hand drifts to my still-flat stomach. There’s a baby in there. A tiny collection of cells that’s half me, half Vince.
For a brief, insane moment, I picture what our child might look like. Dark hair with streaks of silver, maybe. Green eyes like mine.
The thought sends a fresh wave of tears down my cheeks.
Because any fantasy where Vince and I raise a child together is just that: a fantasy. A beautiful, impossible fantasy that will shatter the moment it meets reality.
Vince is going to marry someone from his world. That much is clear. She’ll have perfect hair and unimpeachable connections. The right background, the right bloodline.
Not his knocked-up assistant from Marketing.
Sure, he might offer financial support. He might even feel obligated to take care of me in some way—he’s proven that with Mom’s treatment.
But obligation isn’t love. It isn’t family. It isn’t forever.
And I want more than his dirty little obligation. I deserve more than that. This baby deserves more than that.
The thought stops me cold. This baby. My baby. Our baby.
I place both hands on my stomach now, a fierce protectiveness washing over me.
Whether I keep this baby or not, one thing is clear: I need to protect myself. I need to start building some distance between Vince and me. I need to prepare for the inevitable end of whatever this is between us.
Because every path I can see leads to heartbreak. Every single one.
And if heartbreak is coming no matter what, I’d rather face it on my terms.
Starting now.
“I can’t tonight,” I tell Vince over the phone later that day. “I’m not feeling well.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a stomach bug, I think. Nothing serious.”
The lie sits heavy on my tongue. Is it really a lie, though? Morning sickness is technically a stomach issue.
“I’ll send the car,” he says immediately. “You shouldn’t be alone if you’re ill.”
My heart squeezes painfully at his concern. This is what makes it so hard—these moments where he seems to genuinely care.
“No, really, I’m fine. I just need to sleep it off.”
“Rowan,” his voice drops lower, taking on that edge that usually makes my knees weak, “I haven’t seen you in days.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just been hectic with Mom’s treatment starting, and now, this bug…”
Another pause. I can practically feel his suspicion through the phone.
“Fine.” His tone turns clipped, professional. “Feel better. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I sink onto my couch, phone still clutched in my hand. This is the right thing to do. I know it is. Creating distance now will make it easier when everything inevitably falls apart.
But knowing it’s right doesn’t make it any less painful.
The next few days at work are tense. Vince watches me constantly, those ice-blue eyes following my every move.
I keep my distance. Professional. Efficient.
No lingering touches. No heated glances.
My body betrays me in a thousand different ways—nausea that sends me running to the bathroom multiple times a day, exhaustion that makes my eyes droop by mid-afternoon, breasts so tender that even the brush of my blouse is almost unbearable.
If Vince notices (and of course he does; he notices everything), he doesn’t say anything.
He just watches. Waits.
Like he knows I’m hiding something.
“You look pale,” he observes on the third day of my new strategy of “fake it ‘til you make it.” He’s standing in my doorway, hands in his pockets, deceptively casual. “Still not feeling well?”
“Just tired,” I reply, not looking up from my computer screen. “Lots going on.”
He moves into the room, closing the door behind him. The soft click makes me tense.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I reluctantly raise my eyes to his.
“What’s going on, Rowan?” he asks, his voice gentler than I expected. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. We both know that’s not true.”
For a moment, I nearly crack. The words press against my lips: I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I’m scared. What are we going to do?
“It’s my mom,” I say instead. “The treatment is hard on her. I’m worried.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Mom’s treatment is brutal, leaving her exhausted and sick. But it’s not the whole truth, either.
Vince studies me, doubt written clearly across his face. “Is that all?” he presses.
I nod, looking away. “That’s all.”
He moves closer, rounding my desk until he stands directly in front of me. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up to his.
“As you wish,” he says, retreating behind that mask of indifference he wears so well. “When you’re ready to tell me what’s really going on, you know where to find me.”
He turns and stalks out of my office, leaving me alone with my secrets and my fears.
I press my hand to my still-flat stomach, tears burning behind my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to. Vince? Our unborn child? Myself?
Maybe all of us.
I’m emptying my stomach into the toilet at work when I hear the bathroom door open.
“Row? Are you okay in there?” Natalie’s concerned voice echoes off the tiles.
“Fine,” I call weakly, flushing the evidence of my morning sickness away. “Just a bug.”
I emerge from the stall to find her standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in classic Natalie skepticism.
“A bug that’s had you running to the bathroom every morning for the past week?” she challenges. “Please. I’m eight months pregnant. I know morning sickness when I see it.”
I freeze, hand halfway to the faucet. “That’s not—” I start to deny, but one look at her face stops me. “How did you know?”
“Besides the obvious puking? You’ve been turning green at the smell of Kevin’s tuna sandwiches. You fell asleep during the meeting yesterday. And you haven’t touched coffee in days.” She ticks the points off on her fingers. “You’re pregnant, honey.”
My shoulders slump as the truth of it washes over me. “Yeah,” I admit, the word barely audible. “I am.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Natalie wraps her arms around me, her own pregnant belly pressing against mine. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not,” I whisper, finally letting the tears come. “It’s not okay at all.”
She leads me to the small seating area in the corner of the executive bathroom—one of the perks of my promotion that now seems almost laughable in its uselessness.
“It’s his, isn’t it?” she asks gently.
I nod, unable to speak through my tears.
“Does he know?”
“No. And he can’t. Not yet.” I look up at her, pleading. “Nat, you can’t tell anyone. Promise me.”
“Of course I won’t tell,” she assures me, squeezing my hand. “But Row, he’s going to find out eventually. You can’t hide a pregnancy forever.”
“I know.” I wipe my eyes, trying to regain composure. “I just need time to figure things out. To decide what I want to do.”
“You mean whether to keep it?” she asks carefully.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I press my hands to my face. “Every option seems impossible. If I keep it, I’m tied to Vince forever. If I don’t…” My voice breaks. “If I don’t, I’ll always wonder what might have been.”
Natalie rubs my back in slow circles. “What does your heart tell you?”
“My heart is an idiot,” I laugh bitterly. “It fell in love with a mobster, remember?”
“So you do love him.”
“Yes,” I confess, the word like glass in my throat. “It’s fucked up, but I do. But it doesn’t matter. He’s going to marry someone suitable from his world, and I’m going to be just the baby mama stashed away uptown.”
“You don’t know that,” Natalie argues. “Maybe he’d choose you if he knew about the baby.”
“That’s even worse! I don’t want him to choose me out of obligation. Because of a baby. I want…”
“You want him to choose you because he loves you,” she finishes softly.
“Pathetic, right?” I wipe at fresh tears. “Wanting the impossible.”
“It’s not pathetic to want love, Row.” She rests her hand on my flat stomach. “But whatever you decide about this baby, do it for you—not for him, not for anyone else. Just you.”
I nod, placing my hand over hers. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. But I know I need to protect myself. That’s why I’ve been keeping my distance.”
“And how’s that working out?”
“Terribly,” I say. “He knows something’s up. And it’s killing me to push him away when all I want is to be with him.”
“Maybe—” Natalie starts, but she’s interrupted by the bathroom door opening.
Diane steps in, her eyes narrowing at the sight of us huddled in the corner, my face clearly tear-stained.
“Ms. St. Clair,” she says coolly. “Mr. Akopov has been looking for you. The Xiao representatives have arrived early for their meeting.”
“Of course,” I say, standing quickly and smoothing my skirt. “I’ll be right there.”
Diane gives us both one last suspicious look before leaving.
“That woman gives me the creeps,” Natalie mutters. “Like she can see into your soul.”
“She probably can,” I sigh. “And she probably reports everything directly to Vince.”
“Then you’d better fix your makeup before you go out there,” Natalie advises, pulling a compact from her purse. “Can’t have the boss knowing you were crying in the bathroom.”
I apply fresh concealer and lipstick, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown. When I look presentable again, I turn to Natalie.
“Thank you,” I say, hugging her. “For not judging. For listening.”
“That’s what friends are for,” she replies. “And Row? For what it’s worth, I think you’d make an amazing mom.”
Her words follow me as I exit the bathroom, heading toward the conference room where Vince waits.
An amazing mom.
Is that what I want? Am I ready to be someone’s mother when my own life is such a mess?
I place my hand briefly on my stomach as I walk, a silent acknowledgment of the life growing inside me. I don’t know what to do yet, I think to the tiny bundle of stuff that might someday be my child. But I promise, whatever I decide, it will be with love.
