The hallway stretches ahead of me, cool and quiet after the chaos of the bathroom. My legs feel unsteady. My stomach feels empty. My phone feels like the only thing I can control right now.
I type "morning sickness remedies" into the search bar and scroll through results that all say the same things. Ginger. Crackers. Small meals. Nothing revolutionary. Nothing that addresses the fundamental problem of carrying a secret that's literally making me sick.
I should call Dr. Ortega. Ask her directly instead of trusting the internet's conflicting advice. But that would mean acknowledging this pregnancy out loud to another person, and I'm not ready for that conversation.
My phone buzzes before I can decide.
Zachary's name glows on the screen. Again. The man has no concept of boundaries.
I answer because ignoring him clearly isn't working. "What now?"
"You hung up on me." His voice carries something different this time. Calm, but underneath it—something possessive. Something that makes my skin crawl. "In the middle of a sentence. While you sounded like you were dying."
"I was busy." I lean against the wall, pressing my free hand against my still-churning stomach. "Some of us have responsibilities beyond making phone calls."
"Adison." He says my name like it belongs to him. "Something is wrong. You've been off for weeks. The nausea. The exhaustion. The way you fled to Texas like you were running from something." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice drops lower. "If you won't tell me what's happening, I'll come to the ranch myself and find out."
The threat lands like ice water.
"You'll do no such thing." My composure cracks, anger bleeding through the carefully constructed walls. "This is my life, Zachary. My choices. My business. You don't get to insert yourself into spaces I haven't invited you."
"Someone needs to." He doesn't back down. Doesn't soften. "You've been through hell these past months. The brutal fight for the CEO position. The board members who tried to destroy you. The scandals that followed you everywhere."
"I handled all of that." My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "I handled it without your interference."
"And Jake's distance." Zachary continues like I haven't spoken. "The man who was supposed to support you, disappearing when you needed him most. Leaving you alone to face everything."
"Don't." The word comes out sharp. Dangerous. "Don't you dare bring Jake into this."
"And then your father." His voice softens, but the edge remains. "Watching him die. Burying him. Taking over his empire while the whole world watched to see if you'd fail."
My throat tightens. The accuracy of his assessment cuts deeper than I want to admit.
"Consequences are inevitable, Adison." Zachary's tone shifts to something almost gentle. Almost caring. "You can't absorb that much trauma without it manifesting somewhere. The body keeps score."
"Thank you so much for the unsolicited therapy session." The sarcasm drips from every syllable. "I didn't realize my assistant's duties included psychoanalyzing my emotional state."
"I'm trying to help you." Frustration bleeds through his composure now. "Someone has to, since you clearly won't help yourself."
"What I clearly need is for you to stay in Manhattan and do your job." I push off the wall, pacing the hallway like movement might burn off some of this anger. "Handle the Henderson contract. Manage the board. Stop calling me every five minutes to catalog my failures."
"Adison—"
"Don't come here." The command cuts through whatever he planned to say next. "Don't you dare show up at this ranch. I mean it, Zachary. This is a line you do not want to cross."
Silence stretches across the connection. I hear him breathing. Calculating. Deciding whether to push further.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped. Controlled. "But this conversation isn't over."
"Yes, it is." I end the call before he can respond.
My hands are shaking. I stare at the phone like it might bite me, then shove it into my pocket before it can ring again.
Footsteps echo from somewhere ahead.
I freeze, listening. Two sets of feet. Moving slowly. Accompanied by something else—soft sounds that take me a moment to identify.
Kissing. Someone is definitely kissing.
Tommy and Paige emerge around the corner, lips still pressed together, completely oblivious to the world around them. Her hands rest against his chest. His arms wrap around her waist. They look like a postcard for young love.
I scan the hallway for escape routes. The nearest door is three steps to my left.
I take those steps quickly and quietly, slipping through the door and easing it shut behind me. My back presses against the wood as I listen to their footsteps pass, their whispered laughter fading down the hallway.
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. At least something good is happening for someone. At least Tommy found a girl who looks at him like he's worth looking at.
Then I register where I am.
Jake's room.
Jake's bed.
The realization crashes over me like a wave I didn't see coming. The familiar furniture. The worn quilt. The window facing the mountains. Everything exactly as I remember it.
Memories flood through me without permission. The first time he kissed me in this room. The night I climbed into this bed looking for his answer that he wants me too. The feel of his body against mine, solid and warm and safe.
I sink onto the mattress before my legs give out entirely.
The sheets smell like him. Cedar and leather and something underneath that's just Jake. I breathe it in like oxygen, like I've been drowning and this is the first real air I've found in weeks.
A tear escapes down my cheek.
"Damn hormones." I say it out loud, to the empty room, to no one.
But I know they're not entirely to blame.
This bed holds too much history. Too many moments when I felt like myself for the first time. Too many nights when I understood what it meant to be loved by someone who saw past all my walls.
I sent him away. Told him to leave. Convinced myself I was protecting both of us from the scandal of our relationship.
Now I'm carrying his child, sitting in his room, breathing in traces of him that still cling to the sheets. And I don't know how to tell him. Don't know if he'll want this. Don't know if we can find our way back to what we had.
Another tear falls.
I wipe it away with the back of my hand and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers.
It doesn't. Nothing does.