The crackers are gone before I realize I've eaten them. The ginger ale follows. I pull up my calendar to check tomorrow's schedule and that's when I see it.
The little pink dot I put on every month like clockwork.
Two weeks ago.
I'm two weeks late.
The realization hits me with the force of one of Ryan's combat stories. I lean back in my chair, staring at the calendar like it betrayed me. How did I not notice? How did I miss this?
Because I've been working eighty-hour weeks, that's how. Because I take on every case that comes through the door, handle every client call personally, review every contract myself. Because admitting I need help feels like admitting I failed at the one thing I was supposed to prove—that Emma Dawson can handle anything.
My hands are shaking when I minimize the calendar and open a new browser window.
Pregnancy symptoms early signs
I type it fast, like someone might see over my shoulder. Then I scan the results:
Nausea and vomiting. Check.
Fatigue. I laugh out loud. I'm a solo practice attorney. I'm always exhausted.
Food cravings or aversions. I think about the crackers I just inhaled. The ginger ale that tasted like heaven. The way the smell of coffee this morning made me want to die.
Missed period.
Check.
I close the browser so fast I almost knock over my water bottle.
This is ridiculous. I'm not pregnant. Miles and I are careful. We're safe. We're?—
My phone buzzes in the drawer. I ignore it.
We're careful.
Mostly careful.
There was that weekend last month. When we got back from the wine festival in Tampa and we were both a little drunk and very happy and?—
No. No, no, no.
I can't be pregnant. I have a trial next month. I have the Shadow Strike contract to finalize. I have Brennen's vote hanging over my head and the merger offer judging me from across the desk and approximately nine million other things that require my full attention.
I cannot be pregnant right now.
My computer screen has gone dark. I stare at my own dim reflection, looking for something I don't want to find.
"Emma?" Maggie's voice filters through the door. "You okay in there?"
"Fine!" My voice cracks on the word. "Just reviewing something!"
Silence. Then: "It's almost six. You should go home."
Six? I glance at the clock. I never leave at six. I usually don't leave until midnight, sometimes later. But the thought of staying here, surrounded by all these decisions I need to make, feels suffocating.
"You're right." I grab my bag and blazer. "I'm going home."
Maggie's standing at her desk when I emerge, her coat already on. She studies my face with the kind of knowing look that makes me want to confess everything.
