The call comes as evening light slants through the office windows, painting everything in shades of gold and goodbye.
"Victoria." I answer on the second ring, grateful for any voice that isn't Zachary's.
"Adison, darling." Her tone carries warmth without pity, something I didn't realize I needed until I heard it. "I've been thinking about you all day. I can't imagine what you're going through."
My throat tightens. Victoria Snyder knew my father for thirty years. She knew my mother too. She doesn't want anything from me except to offer comfort, and that makes her exactly what I need right now.
"It's been difficult." The understatement of the century, but she doesn't push.
"Come to my apartment tonight." Her voice softens. "Dinner. Just the two of us. No reporters, no condolences from strangers who didn't actually know him. Just good food and better company."
The offer wraps around me like something safe. Somewhere I can breathe without performing grief for an audience.
"I'd like that." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What time?"
"Seven. I'll have the doorman expect you." She pauses, and I hear the smile in her words. "We'll open that Burgundy Richard always said was too expensive to drink. Seems appropriate now."
"He'd hate that." A small laugh escapes me. Unexpected. Almost painful.
"He absolutely would." Victoria's laugh matches mine. "That's precisely why we're doing it."
I end the call feeling lighter than I have in days. One evening without pretense. One meal with someone who knew my father as a person, not a headline.
Zachary appears in my doorway before I can gather my thoughts.
"Miss Adison." He crosses the threshold with his tablet in hand, movements precise as always. "I wanted to brief you on tomorrow's agenda before you leave for the evening."
I gesture toward the chair across from my desk. My father's desk. Mine now, though it still doesn't feel that way.
"The quarterly financial report requires your attention first thing." He settles into the seat, scrolling through documents. "Legal has flagged several items that need your signature before the board presentation."
"What time?" I pull my own notes closer, trying to focus.
"Eleven sharp." His dark eyes lift from the screen. "I've arranged for the department heads to present their sections individually. Less overwhelming that way."
"Thank you." The words are genuine. His attention to detail has been invaluable.
Zachary sets the tablet down. Something shifts in his expression—softer, more personal. The change makes my stomach tighten.
"I also wanted to offer an alternative for tonight." His voice drops, careful and deliberate. "You shouldn't be alone right now. I make excellent pasta—my grandmother's recipe. My apartment isn't far."
The invitation hangs between us. Reasonable on the surface. Caring, even. But I hear what's underneath it. The same logic Victoria used, twisted into something that pushes against boundaries I never invited him to test.
"That's thoughtful, Zachary." I keep my tone neutral. Professional. "But I already have plans."
"Of course." His smile stays fixed, but something flickers behind his eyes. Resignation, maybe. Or resolve. "Another time, perhaps."
"Perhaps." I don't commit. Won't encourage what he's clearly building toward.
He retrieves his tablet, and I note how quickly his composure returns. Too quickly. Like he's been practicing this particular rejection, preparing for it while planning his next approach.
The pattern crystallizes in my mind. A long hug at the funeral. Yesterday's confession about feelings deeper than professional obligation. Now this. Each attempt calibrated to seem innocent while pushing incrementally closer.
I'll need to address this. Soon. But not tonight.
"Walk me through the report highlights." I stand, reaching for my jacket. "We can finish on the way out."
We leave the office together—my office, I remind myself again—and head down the corridor toward the elevators. Zachary falls into step beside me, tablet balanced expertly as he scrolls.
"Revenue is up three percent from last quarter." His voice takes on its familiar professional rhythm. "The Asian markets performed stronger than projected. Thompson's division exceeded targets by twelve percent."
I nod, absorbing the numbers while my mind wanders to everything else. The pregnancy. Jake's text was still unanswered on my phone. Victoria waiting with wine and memories I'm not sure I'm ready to revisit.
Damn, wine, I can't drink because I'm pregnant. But I can't tell her that either.
"The infrastructure investments your father approved last year are beginning to show returns." Zachary continues, oblivious to my divided attention. "Though the board will likely question the timeline on—"
The smell hits me without warning.
Rich. Bitter. Overwhelming.
A passing employee carries a steaming cup of coffee, fresh from the executive lounge, and the aroma slams into my senses like a physical assault.
My stomach revolts instantly.
"Excuse me." The words barely escape before I'm moving, abandoning Zachary mid-sentence, heels clicking frantically against marble as I rush toward the restroom.
I don't look back. Can't. Not with bile rising in my throat and cold sweat breaking across my skin.
The restroom door swings open under my desperate palms. I barely make it into the stall before my body empties itself violently, ruthlessly, completely.
The retching leaves me trembling. Hollow. I press my forehead against the cool tile and wait for the room to stop spinning.
Six weeks. That's what Dr. Ortega said. Early, but already making itself known.
I count symptoms in my head. The exhaustion I blamed on grief. The heightened sense of smell that makes certain foods unbearable. The way my breasts ache when I shower. The nausea that strikes without pattern or mercy.
How long before this becomes visible? Before my body announces what I haven't decided how to handle?
I calculate weeks against milestones. Board meetings. Public appearances. The timeline for establishing myself as Ward Enterprises' new leader. The window for choices shrinks with every passing day.
First trimester ends around twelve weeks. By then, certain options narrow. Certain decisions become permanent.
I have maybe six weeks before my body makes this public knowledge. Six weeks before Zachary notices the morning sickness. Before the board starts whispering. Before whatever fragile authority I've built crumbles under scandal.
Six weeks is nothing.
Time is not on my side. Time has never been on my side.
I stay on the restroom floor, trembling, forehead still pressed against tile that offers no comfort.
And somewhere inside me, cells keep dividing. Keep multiplying. Keep becoming something that won't wait for me to figure out what I want.