Half an hour later the nausea nips again, tiny but insistent. I press a palm to my stomach, as if that can reason with whatever rebellion is brewing. Vlad’s gaze tracks the motion and his lips part, question forming but not spoken.
We wrap up the deck at eleven twenty-eight. Vlad emails the finalized file to the Antwerp partners, hitting send with a decisive click. “Victory,” he declares.
“Barely made your deadline,” I tease.
“Deadlines are movable when you own the clock.”
He rises, rounding the table and my pulse jumps. He stops beside my chair, brushing a stray lock behind my ear. The gesture is intimate, nurturing, and it scares me how much I lean into it.
“I’ll have Nika book you with Dr. Kornilov,” he says gently but unmistakably an order.
The automaticnojumps to my tongue, but I tamp it down. “I’ll be fine. It’s passing.”
His look says he’s indulging me, not believing me. “Teresa.”
“I mean it. Like I said, it’s probably stress. I don’t need a doctor fussing over me.”
He steps closer, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “If it hasn’t passed by the end of the week, I’m taking you to the doctor whether you like it or not. I won’t play games with your health.”
A tiny flare of irritation, bigger flare of something warm. “Bossy.”
“Correct.” He slides back into his jacket, the CEO settling over him like armor. “Lunch?”
“Sure.”
He smiles and offers his arm. I take it and stand. The room steadies, ginger mint and stubbornness doing their jobs.
At the elevator, he presses the button then asks, “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
My hand drifts to my stomach without permission. The doors part, his eyes drop to the gesture, then up to mine—question still there, tempered by something softer. Maybe wonder. Maybe hope.
Whatever’s happening to me—food poisoning, stress, something else entirely—I’ll face it. But not in fear, and not alone. The doors close, and for the first time all morning, the spinning stops.
CHAPTER 26
TERESA
A few days later…
The chalkboard outside Luna Beans still advertises a peppermint-mocha special left over from Christmas. Inside the exposed-brick café, January sunlight knifes through tall windows, printing lattice shadows across the worn oak tables. Edison bulbs add a lazy, amber glow, the hiss-thump of the espresso machine providing percussion.
I stake out a corner two-top and wrap chilled fingers around a mug of ginger tea—the only thing that’s felt safe on my stomach since the office episode.
Trina breezes in ten minutes late, trench coat the color of fresh cream, sunglasses perched atop her head. She sheds her coat, tosses sable hair over one shoulder, and deposits a gold shopping bag on the spare chair.
“Look at this glow!” she sings, air-kiss left, right. Citrus perfume swirls around us. “Vlad’s obviously better than a spa. Your skin is ridiculous.”
“It’s the dry January air,” I joke, though the mirror this morning had shown more pallor than glow.
She orders an oat-milk cappuccino and two almond croissants—apparently resolution-free. Once settled, she leans in, conspiratorial. “So. Vlad. I can’t believe we haven’t talked about the two of you yet.”
“How’s your uncle taking everything?” I ask, a tinge of anxiety forming in my gut. “It was kind of awkward at the Christmas Gala.”
She waves her hand through the air. “He’s fine. Had a few choice words after it happened, but I think he’s getting over it.” She leans forward. “So, Vlad. Still broody, still lethal, but now he’s cooking you breakfast?”
I flush, remembering Vlad on Christmas morning in that floppy Santa hat whisking batter. “He does. And he surprisingly makes a damn good pancake.”
