The offices are sleek and modern—glass walls, actual conference rooms, a kitchen that doesn't double as a storage closet. My new desk has a window. A window. I haven't had natural light at work in years.
"Emma!" Mr. Preston appears, shaking my hand warmly. "Welcome officially. Your associates start soon—Sarah and Tom. Both excellent. Your office is ready, and HR has your onboarding packet."
"Thank you. I'm excited to get started."
"We're thrilled to have you." He lowers his voice. "And congratulations again. We'll make sure you have everything you need."
I nod, grateful he's keeping it professional. The fewer people who know right now, the better.
Maggie's already set up at her new desk when I arrive at my office. She's arranged everything exactly how I like it, down to the case files color-coded by urgency.
"You're a miracle worker," I tell her.
"I'm aware." She hands me coffee—decaf, I notice—then pauses, studying me. "Wait. Decaf? Since when do you drink decaf?"
I close the office door. "Sit down. I need to tell you something."
Her eyes narrow. "This is about the weird behavior, isn't it? The nausea? The avoiding everyone?"
"I'm pregnant."
Maggie's mouth falls open. Then she grins. "I KNEW IT! Well, I didn't know it, but it makes so much sense now. The crackers. The getting sick in my trash can."
"You're not surprised?"
"I'm relieved. The alternative theories were getting dark." She pulls me into a hug. "Congratulations, Emma. This is wonderful. When did you find out?"
"Last week. Told Miles Friday. Told my brothers Saturday."
"And the merger?"
"Partly because of the pregnancy. I can't keep working eighty-hour weeks while growing a human."
"Smart. Really smart." She sits back down. "So who knows?"
"You, Miles, Ryan, Brennen, their wives. That's it. The town still thinks I'm sick."
"Oh, they definitely do. I've gotten three calls asking about your health."
"Great."
"Your brothers called this morning. Both of them. Ryan wants lunch this week. Brennen wants to know if you need anything."
"They're hovering already."
"They thought you had cancer on Saturday. Give them time to adjust."
My phone buzzes. Text from Julie.
Julie:Emma Dawson. My office. Now.
I show Maggie the text. She winces. "Good luck with that."
Julie's bakery—Seaside Sweets—is packed with the morning rush. She spots me immediately and waves me to the back office, closing the door firmly behind us.
"Sit," she orders.
I sit.
