I blinked away from my screen, sighing as I leaned back in my chair. “I know. I just need to?—”
“You just need toeat, Deena,” he said.
I huffed. “I’m working on something important,” I said, “and I’m almost done.”
“I don’t care. You’re pregnant, and I won’t have you skipping meals.”
My spine snapped straight. I narrowed my eyes at him, feeling the keen edge of anger sharpen inside me. “You may be my boss at work, Cal, but you are not the boss ofme.”
“I’m trying to take care of you.”
“I’m trying to work.”
“I don’t give a shit about your work!” The words exploded out of him, and Cal had the audacity to lift his arm and point at the room’s exit. As if I were a dog, and he could just snap out a command and have me obey.
This wasn’t the bedroom, where I felt safe and connected and I liked being told what to do. This was my business. My life’s work. The thing that had lifted me out of my repressive childhood and given me hope that I could live life on my terms.
And Cal had just said he didn’t care about it.
Rage was a hot cauldron in my gut that had been simmering for weeks. I turned back to my computer, but before I could put my hands on the keyboard, Cal closed the lid.
“Dinner.Now.”
“That’s enough, Cal,” I said, my voice low. I stood, facing him, and I was sure the anger was more than visible in my eyes. “We’ve discussed this before. This won’t work if I don’t have the autonomy to run my business the way I see fit.”
His own anger simmered in his eyes, in the twitch of his muscles, in the clench of his jaw. His fists were tight, and a short huff of breath blew out of his nose.
“Don’t you dare scoff at me,” I said in a low voice.
Cal spread his arms. “Come on, Deena.”
“Come on, what? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This has gone on long enough. You can’t possibly think I’ll let you work until you’re due to give birth.”
I blinked. Blinked again. “What do you mean, ‘let me’ work?” I asked slowly, fingers tenting on the surface of the desk as I fought to maintain my balance.
“This is ridiculous.” He pointed at my laptop. “I make a hundred times your salary, Deena. You don’t have to work until eight o’clock at night! You shouldn’t be working at all!”
“I’m not giving up my business just because you make more money than me, Cal.”
“Why not!”
“Because it’s everything to me,” I shouted. “Because I’ve worked my whole life to build it, and I’m proud of it!”
“So what?” The words slapped against me, harsh and stinging. Cal saw my reaction and rolled his eyes.Rolled his eyes. “Come on, Deena. You’re in a more privileged position than ninety-nine percent of women who get pregnant. Don’t you think you should be taking advantage of that?”
“By tying myself to a man and relying on him entirely? Gee, that sounds like agreatidea!”
“So you don’t trust me now?”
“Not when you barge in here and try to tell me what to do.”
He flinched. But his eyes were hard. “This is it,” he said, slicing his hand through the air.
My breath became shallower. The tension between us grew thicker, and it was hard to see clearly through the haze blanketing my vision. Something was shifting between us. Something big. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not putting up with this anymore. You’re canceling that client”—he pointed at my laptop—“and you’re shutting it down.”
