Ava's POV
Monday morning starts with an unsettling discovery I try to dismiss as paranoia. My desk drawer won't open smoothly, the mechanism feeling loose like someone's been working at it with tools.
I jiggle the key until it finally turns, scanning the contents quickly. My prenatal vitamins are still tucked behind old files, appointment cards still folded inside my checkbook. Nothing appears missing, but the lock mechanism looks scratched, newer marks around the keyhole that weren't there Friday.
"Probably maintenance," I mutter, though we haven't had cleaning crew notifications. I'm probably being paranoid, jumping at shadows when you're carrying the gubernatorial candidate's secret baby.
By afternoon, I've almost forgotten about the drawer entirely.
"Ava, could you pull the archived budget reports from '18 and '19?" Jordan appears with an apologetic smile. "Tobias needs them for his three o'clock with the finance committee."
"Of course." I head for the filing room on the second floor, a cramped space that doubles as storage for documents too old to digitize.
The metal ladder stands against the far wall, extending up to filing cabinets that reach nearly to the ceiling. I've climbed it dozens of times, though lately the height makes me nervous. Pregnancy has made me cautious about things that never bothered me before.
The 2018-2019 budget files are stored on the top shelf, naturally. I test the ladder's stability with a gentle shake before climbing, the way my mother taught me.
"Always check your equipment before you trust it with your life," her voice echoes in my memory.
The first few rungs feel solid. I'm halfway up, maybe six feet off the ground, when I spot the manila folders I need. Just two more steps.
That's when the ladder lurches violently to the left.
The bolt securing the left rail has come completely loose, the metal bracket separating from the wall with a grinding screech. I'm eight feet up with nothing but concrete floor below and a horrible understanding that I'm about to fall hard.
Time slows. The ladder tilts at an impossible angle, taking me with it toward the floor.
The baby.
Terror floods through me, primal and absolute. I twist mid-fall, curling my body to protect my stomach even as I realize I'm about to hit concrete. My shoulder takes the worst impact, followed by my right ankle which twists viciously as I try to land on my feet. The pain is immediate and blinding.
Files explode everywhere, raining down like oversized confetti. The ladder crashes beside me with a metallic clang. But worse than physical pain is the terror clawing at my throat.
What if I hurt the baby?
I curl tighter around my middle, one hand pressed protectively over my still-flat stomach while the other braces against the floor. Everything hurts, but I need to know if the most important thing is okay.
Footsteps pound down the hallway. Voices calling my name, getting closer.
"Ava!" Tobias's voice cuts through everything else, raw with panic.
He reaches me first, dropping to his knees with desperate urgency I've never seen from him at work. His hands hover over my body, clearly wanting to touch, to check, to comfort, but frozen by the public setting.
For a split second, his hands drift toward my stomach. I see the instinctive need to protect what's ours, to make sure our child is safe. But then footsteps echo in the hallway and he redirects to my shoulder.
"Are you okay?" His voice cracks slightly, and I hear what he's really asking. The baby. Is the baby okay?
"I'm okay," I whisper, low enough that only he can hear. "We're okay."
The relief that floods his expression is so visible he has to duck his head to hide it. When he looks up again, he's shifted into overdrive, the concerned boss taking charge.
"Don't move," he orders, voice carrying enough authority that the small crowd gathering stays back. "Someone call an ambulance. Now."
"Tobias, I don't think I need—"
"You fell eight feet onto concrete," he says firmly, his hand gripping mine too tightly for professional comfort. "You're not moving until paramedics clear you."
Jordan appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with sharp eyes. I watch him catalog details—how Tobias's hand grips mine like a lifeline, the protective way he's positioned himself between me and the crowd, the barely controlled panic radiating from him.
"What happened?" Jordan asks, pulling out his phone.
"The ladder." Tobias's gaze shifts to the fallen equipment, something dangerous flashing in his expression. "The bolt was loose."
He examines the bracket that should have secured the ladder to the wall, his jaw tightening. "This was tampered with."
"Are you sure?" Jordan leans closer. "Maybe it just wore out—"
"These bolts were deliberately loosened." Tobias's voice carries absolute certainty and cold rage. "This wasn't an accident."
Before I can process the implications, Chloe bursts through the crowd like a hurricane.
"Oh my God, Ava!" She drops to her knees on my other side, immediately taking inventory of visible injuries. "Are you hurt? Should you be sitting up?"
Her presence gives Tobias the excuse he needs to step back slightly, to let his daughter take the lead with best friend authority while he watches from a more appropriate distance. But I can still feel his attention like a physical weight.
"I'm okay," I tell Chloe. "Just my ankle, I think. And my shoulder."
"Just your ankle," she repeats with trademark sarcasm. "Because falling off a ladder is no big deal."
The paramedics arrive within minutes, professional and thorough as they check my vitals, examine the ankle already swelling inside my shoe. Through it all, I'm hyperaware of Tobias watching from the doorway, Jordan beside him noting every protective instinct he can't quite hide.
But it's movement at the back of the crowd that catches my attention. Tyler, standing near the stairwell, watching the entire scene with an expression I can't quite read. Not concern—something calculating, almost... disappointed?
Like he'd expected something different to happen.
"We should take you to urgent care for X-rays," the lead paramedic announces. "The ankle needs checking, and with a fall like that, we want to rule out internal injuries."
"I'll drive her," Tobias says immediately.
"Dad, you have the finance committee meeting at three," Chloe reminds him firmly. "The one you can't miss because of the budget timeline. I'll take her."
I watch conflict war across his features—the need to stay with me versus professional obligations he can't abandon without raising suspicions.
"Go to your meeting," I tell him quietly. "I'll be fine with Chloe."
He nods reluctantly, but as the paramedics help me stand, he appears beside me one more time.
"Call me the moment you know anything," he says, low enough that only I can hear. "Anything at all."
The urgent care clinic smells like disinfectant and industrial coffee. Chloe fills out paperwork while I sit with my foot elevated, replaying the accident over and over.
Those bolts didn't just wear out. Someone had loosened them deliberately.
"You know, I've never seen Dad that rattled over a workplace accident," Chloe observes as we wait for X-ray results. "He was practically vibrating with panic when I got there."
"It was a pretty dramatic fall," I say carefully.
"Maybe. But he gets that same look when something happens to me or Tyler. That protective dad thing where he goes into complete crisis mode." She studies me with curious eyes. "Though honestly, he's been weird about you for months. Extra protective, like you're family instead of just an employee."
Heat floods my face. "He's just a good boss."
"Uh-huh." Chloe doesn't sound convinced. "Anyway, you're coming to dinner tomorrow night. No arguments. Mara wants to properly meet you, and having Dad there will make it less like a formal girlfriend inspection."
"Chloe, I don't think—"
"You need a proper meal," she interrupts. "You've been looking thin lately, and don't think I haven't noticed. Are you eating enough?"
The irony is crushing. I'm growing a whole human being, but pregnancy's strange relationship with appetite and constant stress has left me looking fragile.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just busy with work."
"All the more reason for a home-cooked meal." Her tone brokers no argument. "Tomorrow night, six o'clock."
The X-rays come back clean—sprained ankle, bruised ribs, nothing broken. As Chloe drives me home, I can't shake the image of Tyler's face in that crowd.
Someone loosened those bolts. Someone wanted me to fall.
The question is: how badly did they want me to get hurt?
And what happens when they realize their plan didn't work?