Chapter 1: Eight Weeks of Bad Decisions
by Rachel Sandoval · 1,968 words
I hit send on the resignation email at 7:03 a.m. The cursor blinked on my phone screen like it had opinions. My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I set the device on the laminate counter of my studio apartment.
One reckless night with Cristian Moriarty had torched my exit plan. Now it looked less like strategy and more like a finger painting gone wrong.
The positive test two weeks later hadn't helped. Two pink lines stared up at me in the office bathroom while I tried not to throw up on my shoes.
I had it mapped out so cleanly. Resign. Vanish to another tech firm across the country. Raise the baby the way my mother never quite managed, without strings or a billionaire father and his pale fingers showing up to ruin the fragile control I'd built.
My phone buzzed. Mandatory all-hands. Emergency. Of course.
The boardroom smelled of cologne and barely contained panic. I slid into my usual seat at the far end of the table, pretending I hadn't just quit via email an hour earlier.
Cristian stood at the head, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sandy hair falling across his forehead as he scanned a tablet. He didn't glance my way. Not once.
Marcus Hale's silver head filled the video screen, his smile never touching his eyes. Leaked algorithms. Regulatory heat. The need for 'internal accountability.' Translation: someone wanted Cristian's company carved up, and we were the collateral damage.
I twisted my mother's ring until the skin went numb. The lentil-sized secret inside me didn't care about boardroom drama. It just kept growing, making my favorite jeans a morning negotiation.
'Protocol requires a full isolation retreat,' Marcus said smoothly. 'Eight weeks at the Cascade estate. Monitored communications. Weekly board updates only.'
My stomach plummeted. Not the estate. Not the remote luxury compound where Cristian went to think. I was supposed to be two states away by then.
Lila Kensington tapped her smartwatch and finished his sentence. 'Stella and Mr. Moriarty will remain on-site for continuity. The rest of the team rotates in from town under my coordination. Security protocols engaged.'
Cristian's gaze flicked to me for half a second. Those blue-grey eyes narrowed like I'd introduced an unexpected bug into his code.
I offered the professional smile that had earned me two promotions. Inside, my pulse hammered against my ribs.
The drive up the mountain passed in near silence. Rain turned to sleet against the armored SUV windows. Cristian drove himself, gripping the wheel with those long fingers that had once traced my spine like he was memorizing every curve.
I kept my eyes on the blurring trees. My weighted blanket waited in the trunk beside clothes that already pinched. Vintage paperweights clinked softly in my bag with every pothole. Tiny anchors. I needed every one I could get.
'You've been quiet,' he said at last. His voice carried that faint British inflection from boarding school days.
'Just processing the sudden career imprisonment.' I kept my words crisp. Work Stella. Precise sentences only.
He hummed a few bars of Chopin under his breath. 'Eight weeks isn't imprisonment. It's a strategic pause.'
'Tell that to my social life.' The words slipped out before I could stop them. What social life? The one that involved 2 a.m. stress-baking and destroying the evidence before sunrise?
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. 'I wasn't aware you had one.'
Accurate. And ouch.
The estate emerged from the mist like it had been designed by Scandinavian minimalists who got lost in the wilderness. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Exposed beams. A great room big enough for a wedding, or in our case, eight weeks of careful small talk and avoided eye contact.
Lila met us at the door, blonde bob flawless despite the weather. 'Everything stocked for months. Wine untouched per your rules, Mr. Moriarty. First board update due in four days.' She glanced between us, head tilting like a curious bird. 'Try not to kill each other. Or... other things.'
Heat crawled up my neck. She couldn't know about the one-night stand after that industry mixer. No one did. It had been off-site. Too much tequila. Zero witnesses.
Except my body, which was already tightening waistbands and making my breasts tender when I folded my arms.
Cristian rolled his sleeves higher as he surveyed the space. 'Thank you, Lila. That'll be all.'
She left in a swirl of efficiency, and then there was only us. The silence stretched between us like fresh taffy.
I unpacked in the guest suite they'd assigned me. King bed. Gas fireplace. A weighted blanket already folded across the duvet like the universe had checked my browser history. I touched it, throat tight, then headed downstairs.
The great room fire crackled with irritating cheer. Cristian had prepared salmon that smelled incredible and immediately turned my stomach in unpredictable directions. I poked at it across the long dining table.
'Not hungry?' he asked after five minutes of nothing but silverware clicks.
'Long day.' I managed a small bite. The lentil apparently hated wild-caught fish.
He watched me with that analytical stare. I could almost hear the algorithms spinning. 'You look tired. Shadows under your eyes.'
My fork paused halfway to my mouth. 'Do I?'
He didn't press. Just kept eating with that deliberate grace, the fire painting warm light across his forearms.
I twisted my ring again. This was fine. Totally fine. I could handle shared meals and accidental brushes of hands over the water pitcher. His fingers felt warm. Mine stayed ice cold.
'Why did you submit your resignation this morning?' he asked suddenly.
Water went down the wrong way. 'How did you—'
'I receive copies of all HR notifications.' His tone stayed dry. 'Even the ones sent at dawn.'
Control freak billionaire. Of course he did.
'I need a change,' I said carefully. 'Personal reasons.'
He leaned back, studying me like buggy code. Those eyes dragged memories to the surface that I couldn't afford. The way he'd looked at me in his penthouse, like I was the only variable worth solving.
'Personal reasons that line up perfectly with a major corporate crisis.' He didn't sound angry. Just curious. That was worse.
'Coincidence,' I lied, and the word tasted like ash.
He hummed again, something that might have been Bach. We finished dinner in weighted silence after that. Every chew. Every sip. Every time our hands nearly touched reaching for the same thing.
Later, in my room, sleep refused to come. The weighted blanket helped but not enough. At 1:47 a.m. I gave up and crept downstairs in my ratty college sweatshirt and leggings that were starting to dig into my waist.
Stress-baking. My shameful little secret. I pulled out flour, sugar, chocolate chips that probably cost more than my old rent. The motions felt automatic. Mix. Pour. Don't think about the way his shoulders had filled out that button-down at dinner. Don't think about the lentil. Don't think about eight weeks.
The muffins were in the oven when footsteps sounded on the stairs.
I froze. Heart hammering hard enough that I worried the baby could feel it. Please let it be the house settling. Please don't let it be—
Cristian appeared in the doorway wearing gray sweatpants and a faded MIT t-shirt that looked unfairly soft. His hair stuck up like he'd been dragging his hands through it for hours. He looked almost human.
Almost.
'Couldn't sleep either?' His voice came out rougher in the middle of the night.
I tugged my sweatshirt lower over my hips. 'Just getting water.'
His gaze moved from the oven timer to the mixing bowl I'd failed to hide to the way I gripped the counter like it might sell me out.
'Muffins,' I offered unnecessarily. 'Stress thing. I'll eat them all before morning so you don't have to pretend to like my baking.'
His mouth did the almost-smile again. 'I like muffins.'
Of course he did. The man probably liked anything that didn't involve messy human feelings.
The timer dinged. I burned my fingers pulling the tray out and cursed under my breath. He stepped closer to help. I jerked back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.
'Careful.' His hand caught my elbow. The touch seared through cotton.
I pulled away. 'I'm fine.'
He watched me plate the slightly burned muffins with the focus he usually saved for hostile takeovers. One had stuck to the bottom. I wrapped it in a napkin and shoved it into the trash when I thought he wasn't looking.
He was looking.
'Waste of good chocolate,' he observed mildly.
'They're terrible. Trust me.'
'I rarely trust without evidence.'
There it was. That dry wit that made me want to both kiss him and throw something at his perfectly organized head. I started cleaning up, hyper-aware of every inch of space between us in the massive kitchen. The estate suddenly felt tiny.
'Why the sudden resignation, Stella?' he asked again, softer. 'And don't say personal reasons. We both know that variable doesn't compute.'
My throat closed. I could tell him right now. Watch his controlled world detonate. Instead I whispered to myself, barely audible, 'Because telling you would be the worst kind of dependence.'
He tilted his head. 'What was that?'
'Nothing.' I forced a smile that felt like cracked porcelain. 'Just tired. Long day of learning I'm trapped with my boss for two months.'
He didn't push. But I saw the calculations clicking behind his eyes. The single drum of his fingers on marble. The way his gaze lingered on how I kept yanking at my sweatshirt hem.
'Goodnight, Stella.' He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. 'For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here.'
The words landed somewhere under my ribs. Not because they were flowery. Because they were simple and honest. And that honesty felt more dangerous than anything else.
I listened to him pace the halls for a long time after that. The storm outside rattled the windows like it wanted inside. I lay under the weighted blanket, mother's ring cutting into my palm, wondering how many more nights like this I could survive without cracking.
The power died at 3:12 a.m.
Blackness swallowed everything. No city glow. No bathroom nightlight. Just the sound of my own panicked breathing and rain lashing the glass.
I fumbled for my phone only to remember the battery had died from stress-scrolling. Perfect.
Footsteps in the hall. Slow. Deliberate.
'Stella?' Cristian's voice, closer than expected. 'Generator should kick in soon. Stay put.'
I stood anyway, needing to move. My foot caught the edge of the blanket and I pitched forward, hands flailing in the dark.
The door opened. Flashlight from his phone sliced through the black. He was right there, inches away, closer than he'd been since that night. Pale fingers reaching out.
His hand brushed my stomach as I caught myself against his chest.
Everything stopped.
For one frozen second I waited for recognition. For him to feel the slight curve that hadn't existed two months ago. For my body to finish its quiet betrayal.
He said nothing. Just held the light steady between us, faces close enough that his breath warmed my forehead.
The generator hummed to life. Lights flickered on, revealing us tangled in my doorway like the most awkward statue in existence.
Cristian stepped back immediately. But his eyes had changed. Sharper now. Like he'd registered something he couldn't quite quantify yet.
I clutched my mother's ring until the metal bit into my palm.