The alarm on my phone is blaring, but I can’t move. Can’t do anything except lie here and try not to throw up. This is the third morning in a row.
I fumble for my phone and silence the alarm, then force myself to sit up slowly. The nausea rolls through me in waves, and I have to breathe through my mouth until it passes.
Stress. It has to be stress.
The last week has been insane. Remembering Vegas. Falling in love with my husband all over again. It makes sense that my body is reacting to all the emotional chaos.
I convinced Ledger to let me keep my apartment for a few more weeks. Told him I needed time to adjust, to pack my things properly, to not feel like I was being rushed into moving in. He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood.
Or at least, he pretended to understand while making me promise to spend weekends at the penthouse.
The bathroom is cold, and I splash water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror. I look tired. Pale. Like I haven’t been sleeping well, which is true because every time I’m alone in this apartment, I miss him.
I get dressed in a burgundy pencil skirt and white blouse, my go-to work outfit, and force myself to eat a piece of toast that tastes like cardboard. The nausea has settled into a low hum in my stomach, manageable but persistent.
The subway ride to work is packed as usual. I wedge myself into a corner and close my eyes, trying not to think about the smell of coffee and sweat and whatever the guy next to me had for breakfast.
At the office, Jenna is already at her desk. “Morning,” she says. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks. You’re a real confidence booster.”
“I’m serious. Are you sick?” She locks eyes with mine.
“I’m perfectly fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Uh-huh. And I’m dating Chris Hemsworth.” She goes back to typing. “If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”
I settle at my desk and pull up my emails. There are seventeen new messages, most of which are about the Q4 campaign launching next month. I start reading through them, but my brain won’t focus.
My phone pings with a message.
Ledger: Good morning, wife. How did you sleep?
I give a small smile.
Me: Alone. It’s terrible. How did YOU sleep?
Ledger: Also alone. Also terrible. Come back to the penthouse tonight.
Me: I’ll think about it.
Ledger: That’s not a no.
Me: It’s not a yes either.
Ledger: I miss you.
My chest aches.
Me: I miss you too.
Ledger: Then stop being stubborn and come home.
Me: Maybe.
Ledger: I’m taking that as a yes. I’ll have Antoine prepare your favorite dinner.
Me: You don’t even know what my favorite dinner is.
