It was a dream. All of it. Just a dream.
I lie back against the pillows, heart still thudding like I’d just run a marathon. The room is dim and still. Just the hum of a fan and the echo of a dream that felt too real.
I sigh and drag a hand down my face. The reaction in the dream wasn’t his—couldn’t be. But the pregnancy?
That part is real.
I press my palm against my belly. Still flat. But no longer empty.
I need to make a doctor’s appointment. Stop dragging my feet. I’ve been floating in this in-between space for too long. Dreaming, wondering, hiding behind spreadsheets and secrets.
I force myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. The tile is cold beneath my feet, a shock that helps jolt me fully awake.
I turn the water in the shower until it’s hot enough to sting, letting it hit my shoulders as the room steams up like a sauna. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the wall.
And like it always does, the fantasy creeps back in.
I imagine him stepping in behind me, steam clinging to the contours of his body. Water beads along his chest, sliding down his sculpted abs, his stiff cock.
His hands find my hips, firm and commanding, pulling me back into his chest, my ass pressing into his hardness. He kisses the side of my neck, his voice a low growl in my ear.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
I shiver.
“Enough,” I mutter to myself.
It’s getting out of hand. The dreams, the daydreams, the heat curling low in my belly every time I think about him.
This is not good.
I rinse off and step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel. When I reach into my drawer for underwear, I gaze at what I’ve chosen—a deep plum lace set. The bra lifts just enough, the panties sit snug on my hips—sexy without trying too hard.
I layer a white silk blouse over it, tuck it into tailored navy slacks, and add a slim belt with gold accents. Low nude heels and small hoops finish the look—professional, polished, in control.
Or at least pretending to be.
I grab my bag, keys, and phone then head out the door, my chest high, spine straight. Because today, I am Astrid Jones. And nobody knows what I’m hiding.
The air is brisk when I step outside, the early sun glinting off the rows of brick walkups lining the street. I live in Logan Square—trendy, a little grungy—with a mix of vintage bookstores, hipster cafes, and a population that seems permanently dressed for an indie film shoot.
I make a quick stop at my usual corner coffee shop. Shauna, a barista with a green septum ring, greets me by name and hands over my order—black coffee, decaf, no sugar. I thank her, then walk the block to the Blue Line and hop the El toward the Loop.
The train rocks as it snakes through the city, and I try not to overthink too much. About the dreams. About him. About the way my body still aches with phantom memory. I focus on the skyline coming into view, the glass-and-steel towers that somehow always manage to look awe-inspiring yet so cold at the same time.
The elevator ride up to Ivanov Holdings is smooth and eerily quiet. My reflection in the mirrored walls is all clean lines and poise, but inside, I’m buzzing.
Yuri asked me to come straight to his office this morning. Not HR. Not a team lead.
His office.
It’s strange. Most CFOs don’t micromanage their new hires. Does he want to work directly with me?
Or… under me?
Or maybe I could work on top of him.
I laugh a little, nearly spilling my coffee.
