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I still haven’t told him about the baby. I need to—I know I do—but every time I try, something gets in the way or I convince myself that it’s not the right moment. Time is slipping by and the longer I leave it, the harder it gets.
Luckily, I am mostly occupied during my work hours. It’s not just me—everyone is all hands on deck, kept busy by this new merger and the issues caused by the regulators stepping in. There’s as much overtime as anyone wants. Disentangling certain departments from InFini and Alder Industries is a mammoth undertaking, and I don’t think anyone expected it to be quite such a monumental task.
I’m taking a quick break one afternoon when my phone vibrates—it’s a message from Claire. I told her to send me articles and pictures of Luke to keep my resolve about ending the marriage. I haven’t had time to tell her yet about my second thoughts.
Another one for you. Not sure why you’re tormenting yourself like this. Can I stop yet? C x
It’s a TMZ link again. They haven’t gotten any scoop from Luke himself, so they’ve decided to keep running older pictures of him with various models.
Playboy Billionaire Now Taken—but Can He Give Up His Old Ways?
The headline immediately creates a sinking feeling in my stomach. Claire’s probably right—I’ve spent enough time with Luke now to know him better than some celebrity gossip website looking for clicks, but I just can’t help clicking on the headline and into the article itself.
Luke Alder seen here three months ago with lingerie model Eva Starke. Luke’s reportedly off the market now, having gotten married in a secret impromptu ceremony in Vegas last month. But can his new wife keep his roving eye in check?
The blonde model is hanging off of Luke’s arm, and the two of them are laughing. Probably at one of his corny jokes that I like way more than I’d care to admit. She’s gorgeous and thin and famous—why on earth is he still interested in me? How long is it going to be now until he gets bored and ditches me?
I close the web browser window and lean back, massaging my temples. Why am I doing this to myself? Don’t I owe Luke a little more respect than to be looking at these trashy articles? He’s never been anything but a gentleman.
I make a decision—a decision to not make any decision.
I’m having a good time with him now. I can’t deny that. So why rock the boat? I’ll just let things play out how they will and enjoy the ride while it lasts.
And I definitely don’t want him to only stay with me because of the baby, out of some sense of duty. So I won’t tell him yet.
It can wait; there’s still time.
Isn’t there?
Later that night, Luke gives me another quick phone call.
“Brock is all over my ass at the moment, Tess. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend any time with you. He barely lets me go to the bathroom. You might think I’m exaggerating but I’m not. I think my Dad has been on to him, telling him to make sure I don’t screw up this deal.”
“I understand,” I say into the phone, even as my heart clenches. When I saw his name flash up on my phone, I was hoping he’d come over, wishing he’d already be downstairs, waiting for me to buzz him up to my apartment. “Honestly, don’t worry about me. You just do your thing.”
As soon as I get into the office in the morning, I feel it come. A wave of nausea, strong and immediate. There’s no stopping it.
Again? Damn it, I thought this might have stopped by now. How much longer is it going to carry on for? It’s too goddamn much.
I rush into the bathroom and throw myself into a stall, wrenching the seat up and just about managing not to get vomit all over myself.
As I’m kneeling there, porcelain bowl in front of me and grotty tiles under my shins, a voice pipes up from outside the stall.
“Tessa, is that you? Is everything okay in there?”
It’s Paula. Damn it, couldn’t it have been literally anyone else? As if I wasn’t miserable enough already.
The whole office has been buzzing with activity so I’ve been able to keep my head down, focusing on my work to avoid contact with my co-workers.
They know I’m married to Luke—they must—but I haven’t let anyone get close enough to feel comfortable asking me. That’s just the way I like it.
But now that I’m trapped in here with Paula, it looks like my luck is running out. She’s the office gossip. Every office has one, and I’m lucky enough that it was her listening to me puke my guts out.
“No, Paula, I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me,” I say, forcing out what’s meant to be a small, breezy laugh. But I sound tense, even to myself.
