"Oh my God! Sweetheart! Baby!" Emma kicked off her heels the second she got in, spinning around the room. "Richard is totally into you! Honey, do you know what kind of backer he is? If he threw even a little support your way, even just publicly praised you, your value, your resources, your opportunities... God, I can't even imagine!"
"Emma," I cut through her fantasy, "stay away from him. Don't answer his calls, don't reply to emails. Act like tonight never happened."
"What?" Emma froze. "Do you hear yourself? That's Richard Winston! The guy with the Midas touch! He's interested in you—people dream about opportunities like this!"
"I don't need this opportunity." I pushed off the door and pulled off my mask. "Emma, listen to me. Don't mess with him. This man is more dangerous than you think."
Emma frowned, studying me. "Honey, tell me the truth. Do you two know each other? Or do you know something I don't?"
Her gaze drifted unconsciously to my stomach. My heart lurched.
"No. We don't." I denied it quickly. "I can't afford to mess with someone like him. I don't want trouble, and I sure as hell don't want to be anyone's plaything."
Emma looked at me skeptically. "Okay, honey, your call. But seriously, if he wants to find you, you think we can hide?"
Emma had accidentally voiced my worst fear.
Richard had recognized me. Once he got bored of this game, dragging me back to Blackwood Manor was only a matter of time.
"Emma," I turned to face her, my voice unnaturally calm, "cancel all my California commitments. We're flying back to Vegas first thing tomorrow."
"Are you insane?!" Emma shrieked. "Those contracts have penalty clauses! Combined, they'd wipe out everything you've earned these past two months! And you'll piss off everyone! What about your reputation?"
My fingers unconsciously moved to my stomach. "I'll pay whatever it costs. Reputation, I can rebuild later. But I have to leave. Now."
Staying here meant too much risk of Richard discovering the pregnancy. With his personality, with the Winston family's way of doing things, they'd stop at nothing to take this child. And as Richard's ex-wife, they'd erase me from the baby's life completely.
Emma stared at me for ten seconds. Then she sighed, got up from the couch, and started making calls to change our flights.
"Jesus, baby... what are you so scared of? You know what, forget it. I won't ask. But think this through—once you pay out this money, we're starting from scratch. And it'll be harder. The company's going to have opinions."
"I know." I pulled out my SIM card and tossed it in the trash. "But I don't have a choice."
The next day, we caught the earliest flight back to Vegas.
The penalties nearly bankrupted me. To cover the losses, I started taking every gig I could get. Mall openings, music festivals, brand events, private parties... if it paid, I showed up. Under that brutal schedule, the harsh stage lights made me dizzy, the pounding bass made the baby kick restlessly, and the air thick with smoke, alcohol, and perfume constantly churned my stomach.
But I endured it. We both needed the money.
Until that night at a department store celebration. Halfway through a song, a violent wave of nausea hit—worse than anything before. I doubled over, hand clamped over my mouth, dry heaving. Gasps and commotion rose from the crowd.
Emma rushed onstage to catch me, speaking quickly into the mic. "Sorry, everyone! Nightingale has acute gastroenteritis..."
She half-dragged, half-carried my limp body back to the cramped backstage dressing room. The second the door closed, I collapsed over the sink, vomiting until tears and snot ran down my face, so weak I could barely stand.
The performance ended in humiliating disaster.
That night, Emma got a call from the company. The boss's fury nearly deafened us both.
"What the hell is she playing at?! She signed a contract—she needs to be professional! All those media and audience members! Now the internet's full of videos of her puking onstage! People are saying everything! Acute gastroenteritis? Who's she kidding?! Is she on drugs?!"
"Boss, she really is sick, seriously sick. Maybe food poisoning..." Emma tried.
"I don't care what kind of poisoning! The contract's crystal clear—if the artist causes a major performance incident for personal reasons, the company can recover all losses! Tell her to think hard! And! We're suspending her activities for two weeks! One more incident like this, you're both fired!"
He hung up.
Emma set down the phone, looking pale. "Natalie, if this keeps up, there's no way you'll hide the pregnancy. And," she handed me her iPad, "look at this."
