The transformation was a delicate, hothouse flower, blooming in the rarefied air of the penthouse. We nurtured it with shared silences, with unspoken understandings, with the brush of a hand in the night. The world outside, with its contracts and its deadlines, felt like a distant, blurry dream. Our reality was the sunrise from his bedroom, the scent of coffee mingling with his cologne, the solid warmth of him beside me as I drifted to sleep.
It was in this new, suspended reality that the first symptom appeared.
It was a Tuesday morning. Alexander had already left for an early meeting, the space on his side of the bed cool to the touch. I'd slept later than usual, a deep, heavy slumber that left me feeling groggy and disoriented. As I pushed myself upright, a wave of dizziness washed over me, so strong I had to grip the headboard until the room stopped tilting.
Too much coffee. Not enough food. I dismissed it, pushing myself out of bed. The world swayed again, a nauseating lurch that started in my stomach and climbed up my throat. I stumbled into the pristine, marble-clad bathroom, bracing my hands on the cool sink, taking deep, slow breaths until the feeling passed.
It was nothing. Stress. The emotional whiplash of the past few weeks. My body was simply catching up.
But the feeling didn't leave. It lingered throughout the day like a stubborn ghost. A metallic taste in my mouth that water couldn't wash away. A pervasive, low-grade nausea that made the thought of the elaborate lunch Mariela had prepared utterly repulsive. I picked at a salad, my stomach clenching in protest.
I tried to lose myself in my work on the terrace. The planters were built, and the first deliveries of soil and compost had arrived. The physical labor of shoveling, of mixing, of planting the first hardy lavender and rosemary bushes usually grounded me. But today, the rich, earthy smell of the compost, usually a comfort, turned my stomach. The heat of the sun, filtered through the glass enclosure, felt oppressive, cloying. I had to retreat inside, my skin clammy, the world tilting on a faint axis.
By the time Alexander returned that evening, the feeling had crystallized into a cold, sharp knot of dread in my stomach. It was no longer just a vague malaise. It was a suspicion, terrifying and specific.
He came into the living area, loosening his tie, his gaze immediately finding me curled on the sofa, a blanket pulled up to my chin despite the warmth of the room.
"You're pale," he said, his brow furrowing as he crossed the room. He sat beside me, his hand coming up to feel my forehead. "Are you unwell?"
His touch was gentle, concerned. It made the knot in my stomach tighten.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice sounding thin. "Just a little tired. Maybe a bug."
He studied me, his CEO's eyes missing nothing. the slight sheen of sweat on my brow, the way I avoided his gaze. "You didn't touch your lunch. Mariela was concerned."
"I wasn't hungry."
He was silent for a moment, his thumb stroking my temple. "The stress of the event, the change in our… situation. It's been a lot. Perhaps you should see a doctor."
The word doctor sent a fresh jolt of panic through me. "No," I said, too quickly. "It's nothing. Really. I just need a good night's sleep."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. He pulled me against his side, and I let my head rest on his shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid presence even as my mind raced in frantic, terrified circles.
The timeline. I mentally scrambled through the dates, my heart hammering against my ribs. Our wedding. The sterile, emotionless ceremony. The separate bedrooms. The strict rules.
Then, the shift. The gala. The almost-kiss. Tokyo. His return. The new understanding.
And the night everything changed.
It had been unprotected. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. In the heat of that moment, with the walls crashing down and a new, raw truth being forged between us, the cold, clinical details of the contract had been the farthest thing from my mind. And his? A man who planned for every contingency, had he, in that unguarded moment, forgotten too?
The rules of our contract were clear. No children. It had been a footnote, a standard clause in a business arrangement, something I had never given a second thought. It was an impossibility. Until now.
The next morning, the nausea was worse. The mere smell of coffee brewing had me bolting for the bathroom, retching over the toilet until my eyes watered. I clung to the cool porcelain, trembling, the truth now a deafening roar in my ears.
This was no bug. This was not stress.
When I emerged, pale and shaky, Alexander was waiting outside the door, his face a mask of stark concern.
"Elara," he said, his voice tight. "That's it. I'm calling Dr. Evans."
"No!" The word was a plea. I couldn't have a doctor here, not yet. Not until I knew for sure. I needed to process this alone first. I needed to have the facts before I faced him with them. "Please. Alexander, just… give me an hour. I need to go out. For some air."
He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "You can barely stand. I'll come with you."
"No!" I insisted, a desperate edge to my voice. I forced a weak smile. "I just… I need a minute. To clear my head. I'll take the car. I won't be long."
His gaze was searching, probing the lie. He saw my panic, but he mistook its source. He thought I was just ill and stubborn.
"One hour," he conceded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Then I'm coming to find you."
I nodded, relief and terror warring within me. I grabbed my purse, my hands trembling so badly I could barely get my wallet.
I didn't go for air. I went to the pharmacy three blocks away, my sunglasses hiding my eyes, my collar pulled up. I moved through the brightly lit aisles like a ghost, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I found the section, my vision blurring as I looked at the colorful boxes. I grabbed two different brands, a superstitious impulse, and paid in cash, my face burning with a shame that felt both ancient and utterly new.
Back in the penthouse, I mumbled something to Alexander about feeling better and needing to lie down. I locked myself in my old bathroom, the one that still felt like mine, a last bastion of my separate life.
The wait was an eternity. I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, staring at the two white sticks on the edge of the sink, watching the little hourglass symbols blink with a taunting slowness. Each passing second felt like a lifetime, a countdown to a future I had never, ever imagined.
The first timer beeped. Then the second.
My breath froze in my lungs. I forced myself to stand, my legs like water.
I looked down.
And the world I had so carefully begun to rebuild with Alexander shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces.
Two pink lines. On both tests.
Positive.
I was pregnant.