I sink into the seat, exhaustion crawling over me like a weighted blanket. I could fall asleep right here, the car humming beneath me, our baby growing inside me.
Our baby.
Shit.
I don’t even care that I’m choking down nausea or that I’m aching.
I let my hand drift to my belly, smiling, because I have to tell my husband that his deranged breeding mission has been successful.
SEVEN
JENSEN
I’min a meeting when I get the message from Theo. It’s short, sharp, him in every way.
TookMrs. Rivers home. She’s unwell.
I stop listening to whatever shit my head of tech is spewing. All I see are those words on my phone. My wife is ill, and my brain is building catastrophes.
I should have made her stay home this morning, I knew something was wrong, but I know I’m overbearing when it comes to her. I tried giving her space, and now she’s unwell.
Whatever the fuck that means.
I check the tracking device on her phone. She’s almost home, which eases the bands around my ribs a fraction, but not enough.
She’s sick, and I’m not with her.
I pull up the gallery cameras on my phone and I scroll through the footage from today. When I hit play, there’s a boulder in my stomach.
I watch my wife trying her hardest to push through while Juno talks to her. Even on the cameras, I can tell her smile is thin and her eyes dull.
She looks awful.
She’d been tired this morning. No appetite. Moody. But nothing that indicated illness.
“Boss?” Derek says. “Did you hear what I said?”
I don’t look up from the footage playing on my phone. My wife. Struggling. Suffering. There isn’t a single thought in my head right now other than getting to Mia. I don’t care about whatever shit Derek’s saying.
“I’m going home.” I push to my feet so abruptly my chair wobbles. “My wife’s sick.”
There’s a mumble of voices around the boardroom table, but I don’t give a single shit what they think. All that matters is her.
“But the Washington portfolio.” Derek stands with me. “We need to finalize the?—”
“Just do whatever you think,” I snap.
I’m already at the door before anyone can stop me. I move like I’m being chased by the ghost of every ‘what-if’ I’ve tried to ignore since I watched her leave the penthouse this morning.
The drive home feels long, even though I’m only ten minutes across the city. Traffic moves too fucking slow and by the time I’m in the elevator, watching the numbers climb toward the penthouse, my thoughts verge on dangerous.
I need to see her.
I need to lay eyes on her.
As soon as I step into the apartment, the silence hits me. It’s too quiet, too still, and every nerve ending in my body stands to attention. I move through our home, checking the usual places I’d expect to find her. She is not on the couch, not in her art studio that overlooks the river.
She’s not in the bedroom either.
