The financial report blurs before my eyes. Numbers swim into meaningless shapes, columns dissolving into gray smears that refuse to hold still.
I blink. Try again. The words rearrange themselves into something almost coherent before sliding apart.
"Adison." Zachary's voice cuts through the fog. "Perhaps we should take a break. Order some lunch."
I don't look up from the papers that refuse to cooperate. "I'm fine."
"There's an excellent Thai place that delivers." He moves closer, tablet already in hand. "Or Italian, if you prefer something lighter. The risotto from Carmine's is exceptional."
My stomach turns at the mention of food. The nausea that's been lurking all morning surges forward, and I grip the edge of my desk to steady myself.
"I said I'm fine." The words come out sharper than intended. "I'll eat later."
Zachary sets his tablet down. His expression shifts into something I recognize—concern bleeding through the professional mask he usually wears so perfectly.
"You haven't been eating." He says it carefully, like he's approaching a wounded animal. "Not properly. Not that I can see."
"I've been busy." The deflection sounds weak even to my own ears. "My father just died. There are things to handle."
"I spoke with Maria." The admission hangs between us. Heavy. Unwelcome.
My head snaps up. "You did what?"
"She's worried about you." Zachary holds my gaze without flinching. "The nausea. The exhaustion. She says you can barely keep down toast in the mornings."
Heat floods my cheeks—anger, embarrassment, something dangerously close to panic. I push back from the desk and stand, needing the height advantage, needing distance.
"Monitoring my health isn't in your job description, Zachary." My voice comes out cold. Controlled. The voice my father taught me to use when setting boundaries. "What I eat and when I eat it is none of your concern."
"With respect, Miss Ward—" He steps closer instead of retreating. "—as your right-hand man, taking care of you is exactly my duty."
The words settle into my chest like stones dropped in still water. Ripples spread outward, disturbing everything they touch.
I see what's happening now. What's been happening for days, maybe longer. Zachary isn't just positioning himself professionally. He's weaving himself into the personal spaces I never invited him to occupy.
The long hug at the funeral. The confession about feelings deeper than obligation. The dinner invitation. And now this—surveillance disguised as concern, Maria recruited as an informant.
I have no space for this complication. No bandwidth for navigating another man's feelings while my own life spirals beyond recognition.
"I'm leaving." The decision crystallizes as I say it. "For two weeks. Maybe longer."
Zachary's composure cracks. Something raw flickers behind his eyes before he smooths it away.
"Leaving?" He sounds genuinely surprised. "Where? Why?"
"Victoria Snyder's daughter needs supervision." I gather the reports into a neat stack, giving my hands something to do besides shake. "She's spending time at a ranch in Texas. I offered to accompany her."
"Texas." The word comes out flat. Loaded with implications he doesn't voice.
"Jake Sullivan's ranch, yes." I meet his gaze directly, refusing to flinch from what I'm admitting. "He keeps calling. I need to handle things in person."
"You might be needed here." Zachary's voice hardens at the edges. "The board expects your presence. The Henderson contract requires—"
"The Henderson contract can wait." I cut him off before he could build momentum. "And the board will survive two weeks without seeing my face."
"Adison—"
"This is why I have you, Zachary." The reminder lands precisely. "Deputies exist for exactly this purpose. You wanted to be my right-hand man. Here's your chance to prove you can handle the responsibility."
He stares at me for a long moment. Something moves behind his expression—disappointment, maybe, or the recalculation of strategy.
"Of course." His voice smooths back into professional neutrality. "I'll manage everything in your absence."
"I know you will." I soften my tone slightly, throwing him a small concession. "I trust you with this."
The words taste complicated on my tongue. I do trust his competence. It's everything else I'm learning not to trust.
* * *
That evening, I called Victoria to confirm the details.
"Oh, wonderful!" Her delight carries clearly through the phone. "Violet will be thrilled to have you there. Well—thrilled might be an overstatement. But she'll benefit from your presence."
"I'll meet them at the airport." I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear, pulling a suitcase from my closet. "Eight o'clock tomorrow."
"Adison." Victoria's voice softens. Maternal in ways that make my chest ache. "This is good. Getting away from Manhattan. Finding some peace."
I make agreeing sounds and end the call before she can probe deeper.
The suitcase lies open on my bed. I move through the apartment on autopilot, gathering clothes and toiletries with mechanical precision. Jeans. Boots. The practical things Texas requires.
My hand stills in the drawer.
The wedding ring catches the lamplight. Jake's grandmother's ring, threaded on a delicate silver chain. I'd taken it off when Jake left. Hidden it away like a shameful thing instead of the promise it represented.
I lift the chain slowly. The ring spins gently, catching light and throwing tiny rainbows across my palm.
Six weeks pregnant. Carrying Jake's child. Flying toward a man who might not want me anymore—a man I sent away because I was too afraid of what choosing him would cost.
The ring weighs nothing. The questions it represents weigh everything.
I hold it against the fading light from the window, watching the metal gleam with possibilities I can't predict.
Am I traveling to Texas to save my future marriage? Or to end it?
The ring doesn't answer. The silence in my apartment offers no guidance. And somewhere inside me, cells keep dividing—becoming something that will exist whether I find courage or not.
I tuck the chain into my carry-on bag and zip it closed.
Tomorrow, I fly toward answers I'm not sure I'm ready to hear.