She could not disagree with that statement.
Dinner passed with forced normalcy, the girls chattering about their vacation memories while the adults maintained a careful distance, both physical and emotional. Afterward, Sunny guided the girls through their bedtime routine with extra stories and cuddles, treasuring these moments of uncomplicated connection.
Later, alone in her bedroom, Sunny found herself unable to sleep despite her exhaustion. The events of the day played in an endless loop through her mind — the shocking headlines, the cruel comments, Liam’s stressed conversations, the uncertain future that awaited them.
Against her better judgment, she reached for her phone once more, scrolling through a few final notifications before attempting to sleep. Her thumb paused over an alert from the Kansas City Coyotes fan forum — a place where she occasionally lurked to read updates about Liam’s games, though she’d never posted.
The notification preview made her blood run cold:“Background Check: Who is Sunny Thompson? The REAL story of Anderson’s Nanny”
With trembling fingers, she opened the link to find a multi-page thread dissecting her life — her education, her previous jobs, even details about her time in foster care. Someone had dug up her college yearbook photo. Another had found an ancient MySpace page she’d forgotten existed. They’d uncovered the obituary for her stepfather, speculating abouther “daddy issues.”
Complete strangers were analyzing her life, picking apart her background, her choices, her very existence. The intrusion felt violating on a cellular level.
Sunny set the phone down, suddenly nauseated. The room seemed to spin slightly as she curled onto her side, hugging her knees to her chest. The physical symptoms of anxiety were becoming all too familiar — racing heart, clammy skin, churning stomach.
Trying to ground herself, she focused on counting her breaths. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. A technique she’d learnt after her father died, when panic attacks had become a regular occurrence.
As her breathing gradually steadied, a new awareness filtered through her anxiety — a different kind of physical discomfort. She sat up abruptly, counting backward in her head.
When had her last period been? Before the vacation, certainly. But how many days before? A week? Two?
She grabbed her phone again, her shaking fingers opening her calendar app. She scrolled backward, searching for the small red dot she used to mark her cycle.
Six weeks. It had been nearly six weeks.
She was late. Very late.
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her lower abdomen as the implications crashed over her like a tidal wave. The nausea that had plagued her all day took on new significance. The unusual fatigue she’d attributed to vacation activities suddenly seemed suspicious.
Could I be…
She couldn’t even complete the thought, her mind rebelling against the possibility even as her body sent unmistakable signals.
Not now. Please, not now.
But her silent plea couldn’t change the simple mathematics of their situation.
She and Liam had always been careful and used protection. But she recalled the evening when Liam’s sister Morgan had unleashed her torrent of abuse. Liam had visited her that night for a consolation cuddle, which turned into a lot more. He had pulled out, but there was no guarantee without using protection.
Tomorrow she would need to find a pregnancy test. Tomorrow she would know for certain.
But tonight, as the reality of their situation settled over her like a heavy blanket, one thought echoed repeatedly through her mind:What the hell am I going to tell Liam?
Liam
Liam tugged at his tie, feeling as if it were choking him. The dark navy suit — his “serious business” attire — felt like armor as he strode through the gleaming glass doors of the Kansas City Coyotes’ headquarters. The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly upon seeing him, that now-familiar flash of recognition mingled with curiosity making his skin crawl.
“Mr Anderson,” she said, forcing professionalism into her tone. “They’re expecting you in Conference Room A.”
Of course they were.
Liam had dreaded this meeting ever since those damned photos surfaced. He nodded curtly and headed for the elevator, jabbing the button for the executive floor with more force than necessary.
When he arrived on the third floor, Mike Callahan, his agent for the past decade, was waiting by the elevator bank, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by a grim expression that did nothing to ease Liam’s churning stomach.
“That bad, huh?” Liam asked, trying for a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Mike ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I won’t sugarcoat it, Liam. Gerald’s furious. Sponsors are making noise. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”
