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I should say no, stay here with Sophia and deal with everything instead of running from her.

“Text me the address.”

In the bedroom, I find Sophia folding clothes with her back to me.

“I have to go out.”

Her hands and shoulders tense before she turns. “Work?”

“Yes. Alessandro Marcelli is in town unexpectedly. I’ll be two hours, maybe three.” I step closer, my hand settling on her waist as I search her face. “I’m sorry.”

The words feel foreign in my mouth. I don’t apologize. Ever. I don’t explain myself. But with her, I find myself wanting to.

“I should stay. I should⁠—”

“Go.” Her voice is gentle, understanding in a way that makes me feel worse, and she gives a timid nod. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“You’d fucking better be.” The words come out rough, but the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of my lips makes them feel more a playful warning than a command.

I pull her into me, and my mouth finds hers in a fierce, lingering kiss; all the things I can’t seem to say pouring into it. I hold her tighter, as if I can somehow make her understand that leaving is the last thing I want to do. When I finally pull away, her eyes are dazed, her lips swollen from the kiss.

Staring down at her, I hate that I have to leave. I’d rather stay here, hold her, take her to bed and finish what we started—tell her with my body everything my mouth can’t say.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, reality reminding me of the meeting I need to leave for.

As Marcelli drones on and on about timelines and profits, I move through the meeting on autopilot, sipping bourbon and laughing at jokes that aren’t funny to calm his concerns about the South Side project. My thoughts elsewhere; fixed on the woman in my penthouse, who loves me despite everything, and who is slowly becoming the one thing I can’t control… or imagine my life without.

I stand in the middle of the bedroom, a half-unpacked suitcase open on the settee at the foot of the bed, the clothes spilling out as evidence of how little progress I’ve made since we returned home.

Vance left a little over an hour ago, and as much as I didn’t want him to leave, I should be grateful for the space. This brief moment of solitude is a good opportunity to process my revelation and the three words that slipped out in the restaurant before I could stop them. But it isn’t my confession that’s weighing heavily in my thoughts. It’s his.

I know what he can give me. An all-consuming devotion that borders on obsession; his attention; protection; and his absolute certainty that I belong at his side. Is loving me going to be enough for me? It’s the question I can’t stop circling back to as I refold the shirt in my hands for the tenth time.

A flutter of unease settles low in my stomach as the room suddenly starts spinning. It builds quickly, rising up my throat, hot and insistent. I drop the shirt onto the bed, pressing my hand to my mouth when bile hits the back of my throat.

Rushing to the en suite, I make it just in time, falling to my knees as my body forcefully empties the contents of my stomach. I throw up until there’s nothing left, until I’m dry heaving with tears streaming down my face and my hair pinned to the sweat beading at my temples. When it’s over, I collapse onto the marble floor, my cheek pressed against the cool tile as I try to slow the ragged gasps to catch my breath.

What the hell did I eat?

The thought is stupid and automatic. I run through the past twenty-four hours. There was a little too much bourbon in the hot tub last night. We had breakfast at the lake house—eggs, bacon, and toast—which tasted perfectly fine at the time. An early dinner at that little café, where I barely touched my food after unsettling this marriage. There’s nothing that should have made my body revolt with such violence.

I crawl to the sink, gripping the counter with white knuckles to haul myself up from the floor. My reflection stares back at me—pale, hollow-eyed, my hair tangled and damp—looking like death. I reach for my mouthwash with a trembling hand and gargle. As the mint burns away the acrid taste in my mouth, two words flit through my thoughts.

Unprotected sex.

I nearly choke on the liquid bubbling across my tongue. No… I stare at my reflection, and the sudden panic widens my eyes as I think about the countless times Vance has spilled inside me. With how diligently he’s been trying, I knew this day was coming. I just didn’t expect it so soon. Per our agreement, I went off my birth control when we married. An injection I’d been on for over a decade. Isn’t it supposed to take your body time to purge that from your system?

My breasts are bigger.

I spit into the sink and run my hands over my chest, pressing against the tenderness and slight heaviness that I dismissed the other day as hormonal fluctuations. They’re unmistakably full, but it’s probably a normal part of my cycle.

My cycle that should have started already.

I was due to start my period three days ago. Or is it four? I can’t remember, but with how closely he tracks my cycle, it’s late enough that I’m surprised Vance hasn’t noticed and had me take a test.

I’ve been irregular before. Stress does that. Between this marriage, his family, and the grueling hours working on the South Side project, it’s no wonder my period hasn’t come yet.

My hand drifts down, pressing flat against my stomach, instinct overriding reason. I know my own body. I know when something feels different. And this feels different.