Chapter 3: Dizzy Spells and Deadlines

The great room smelled like pine logs and the faint ghost of last night's scotch. I stayed buried under the weighted blanket long after Cristian's footsteps retreated upstairs, my pulse doing that stupid flutter thing his declaration had triggered. Punish or keep you. Who even said stuff like that? My sarcastic inner voice supplied the answer: aloof billionaires who owned mountain estates and apparently my undivided attention for the next seven weeks.

I twisted my mother's ring until the skin around it went white. The fire had burned down to embers, but the heat lingered in my cheeks. Sleep felt impossible. Instead I cataloged escape routes that didn't exist while the snow piled higher against the windows, each flake another bar in this luxurious cage.

Morning arrived with the low hum of a vehicle cutting through the quiet. I dragged myself to the kitchen, leggings digging into my waist in a way that had nothing to do with the slight curve I kept hidden under oversized sweaters. Cristian already stood at the counter organizing coffee beans by roast level like it was a sacred ritual. His sandy hair looked sleep-rumpled in a way that should be illegal before nine a.m.

"Lila's here," he said without turning around. His voice carried that measured calm, but I caught the undercurrent of something sharper. Like he hadn't slept much either. "Supply drop. And apparently she has opinions about our week-two board update."

I poured myself herbal tea instead of the fancy stuff he favored, mostly to avoid another round of altitude lies. My stomach gave a warning lurch at the smell of his espresso. The lentil was opinionated today. "Opinions from Lila usually come wrapped in corporate jargon and passive-aggressive watch-checking."

He hummed a few bars of Bach, the notes low and thoughtful. It did unfair things to the base of my spine. I busied myself with the fridge, pretending the sight of his rolled sleeves didn't flash memories of them pushing up my skirt two months ago.

The front door opened with a blast of crisp mountain air. Lila swept in, petite and perfectly put-together in a tailored coat, blonde bob not daring to frizz despite the weather. She carried two large totes and an expression that said she'd already diagnosed the tension in the room.

"Morning, power couple," she chirped, setting the bags on the island with birdlike efficiency. Her smartwatch beeped. She checked it immediately. "Board's chomping at the bit for the update. And if you two don't stop with the loaded silences, I won't need to fabricate stories—they'll read it in the metadata."

I nearly choked on my tea. Cristian's mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed analytical as he helped unpack fresh produce. His pale fingers brushed a bag of flour, and I thought of my midnight baking sessions. The ones he'd already sampled without invitation.

"The update was comprehensive," he said, voice dry. "Internal breach confirmed. Patterns suggest test server access. We've isolated variables."

Lila finished his sentence before he could. "But Marcus wants more. Specifically, he wants to know why Stella looks like she's seen a ghost every time your names come up in the same sentence." She shot me a knowing look that made my skin crawl. Not helpful, Lila. Not when the ghost was currently doing somersaults in my uterus.

I forced a laugh that came out too brittle. "Isolation's just... intense. Fresh air helps."

She didn't buy it. Of course she didn't. The woman consumed true-crime podcasts like oxygen and could spot a lie faster than most people spotted typos. "Sure. Fresh air. That's why the tension in here's thick enough to spread on toast." Her gaze flicked between us, lingering on the careful distance I kept from Cristian's arm. "Anyway, supplies are restocked. I'll be back in four days unless the roads wash out. Try not to solve the scandal by... other means."

Cristian walked her out, their voices murmuring about board politics and monitored comms. I stayed behind, twisting my ring and stress-eating a banana like it might grant me superpowers. Or at least the ability to keep my secret for another week. The lentil seemed unimpressed.

When he returned, the air in the kitchen felt heavier. He leaned against the counter, blue-grey eyes tracking my movements with that seeing-through-lies precision. "She's not wrong about the update. Marcus's last message hinted at new evidence. We need to get ahead of it."

I nodded, professional mask sliding into place even as my pulse betrayed me. "Study? Side-by-side again, or should I work from the other side of the estate like yesterday?"

His lips curved in that almost-smile that made my stomach flip for entirely different reasons than morning sickness. "Together. Your breach analysis needs cross-referencing with my access logs. And before you argue, this isn't about proximity. It's efficiency."

Sure. Efficiency. Tell that to the way his shoulder kept brushing mine an hour later as we hunched over the massive oak desk. The study smelled of leather and woodsmoke, the fireplace crackling like it approved of our discomfort. My laptop screen blurred as his humming started up again—Chopin this time, the notes wrapping around data points like they belonged there.

"This timestamp," he murmured, leaning closer to point at my spreadsheet. His breath warmed my temple, carrying hints of coffee and something uniquely him. "It doesn't align with external logs. Your instincts were right—internal. But why?"

I tried to focus on the numbers instead of how his pale fingers rested inches from mine. Gentle fingers. The same ones that had traced lazy patterns on my back that night while he whispered my name like it mattered. My thighs pressed together under the desk. Traitor body.

"Could be someone testing for vulnerabilities," I said, voice steadier than I felt. "Or testing you. Marcus has been gunning for control since your ex—"

I stopped, realizing too late I'd ventured into personal territory. His posture stiffened, but he didn't pull away. Instead those blue-grey eyes met mine, closer than they had any right to be in a professional setting. The air thickened with everything we weren't saying.

"Careful, Stella," he said softly. That faint British clip made the warning sound almost intimate. "You're starting to sound like you care about my company's future. Or mine."

Heat crawled up my neck. I tucked a strand of wavy hair behind my ear, the nervous habit buying me seconds. "I care about not being collateral damage in your boardroom war. That's all."

We worked for hours like that, the chemistry building in fits and starts. A shared laugh over a ridiculous algorithm error. His dry correction of my pivot table that somehow felt like foreplay. At one point he reached across me for a notepad, his forearm brushing my chest accidentally. We both froze. My breath caught. His eyes darkened for half a second before he pulled back, humming resuming like armor.

"Lunch," he announced eventually, voice rougher than before. "Before we both starve and the board accuses me of neglect."

I followed him to the kitchen on unsteady legs, the proximity torture leaving me flushed and off-balance. He made sandwiches with that deliberate grace—ham, cheese, the good bread Lila had delivered. I picked at mine, appetite fickle thanks to the lentil's latest demands. Low blood sugar had been creeping up on me lately, another delightful pregnancy perk I'd researched in incognito mode at 3 a.m.

"The board wants a team-building element in our next update," he said between bites, watching me over the rim of his coffee. "Mental clarity exercises. They suggested a hike on the estate trails."

I nearly dropped my sandwich. "Hike. In the snow. With you. Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Or hypothermia."

His mouth twitched. "It's monitored paths. And fresh air might help your... altitude issues." The pause before altitude carried suspicion like a hidden blade. He knew that excuse was wearing thin. I could feel it in the way his gaze dropped to my hand, which had drifted to my stomach again without permission.

I yanked it back. "Fine. Hike. But if I pass out from exertion, it's on your quarterly report."

The trail wound through snow-dusted evergreens, the mountain air sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head. Cristian walked beside me with that economical grace, hands in his jacket pockets, posture perfect even on uneven ground. He pointed out landmarks—his favorite thinking spot by a frozen stream, a clearing where he sometimes watched meteor showers. Small revelations that chipped at my resolve.

"You come here to escape the company," I observed, boots crunching on packed snow. My breath puffed out in visible clouds. "Yet here we are, trapped by it."

He hummed softly, Bach again. The notes mingled with the distant call of a bird. "Escape implies running. I prefer strategic withdrawal. What about you, Stella? What are you running from besides vague personal reasons?"

The question landed too close. My head swam suddenly, the world tilting as low blood sugar and pregnancy hormones tag-teamed me. Trees blurred. My efficient grace deserted me completely. One foot caught on a root hidden under fresh powder, and I pitched forward with a startled gasp.

Strong arms caught me before I hit the ground. Cristian's chest pressed against my back, one hand splayed across my waist, the other gripping my elbow. Warmth seeped through my layers. His heartbeat thudded steady against my shoulder blade, faster than it should have been. For a moment neither of us moved. His fingers flexed against my side, inches from where the lentil hid its growing presence.

"Easy," he murmured, voice low near my ear. That British inflection wrapped around the word like a caress. "I've got you."

Irritation flared hot and unexpected. I didn't want got you. I wanted control, the kind that didn't involve leaning on anyone, especially not the man whose baby was currently making my body a ticking time bomb. Still, my knees wobbled traitorously as I straightened, his hands lingering on my waist far longer than necessary.

"I'm fine," I said, stepping out of his grip even as the dizziness lingered. My voice came out sharper than intended. "Low blood sugar. Skipped too much breakfast. Not some damsel routine."

Those blue-grey eyes studied me, concern mixing with that growing obsession I could practically see calculating behind them. He didn't believe the full story. Not anymore. "Then we turn back. No arguments. And when we get inside, you're eating something substantial."

The walk back passed in tense silence broken only by his occasional humming. I resented how steady he was, how easily he matched his pace to mine without making it obvious. Back at the estate, he guided me to the great room couch like I might shatter. The fire had been stoked—probably by some automated system because billionaires didn't do manual labor unless it involved coding empires.

"Stay," he ordered mildly, disappearing into the kitchen. I heard cabinets open, the hum of the fridge. Minutes later he returned with a plate of cheese, crackers, apple slices, and what looked like the last of my hidden chocolate. His pale fingers arranged it with surprising care before handing it over.

I ate under his watchful eye, the sugar helping the dizziness fade. I wanted to resent the gentle way he hovered. Part of me did. But another part—the lonely orphan part that had triple-checked every report and planned every exit—wondered what it would feel like to stop running.

"Thank you," I muttered around a cracker. It tasted like admission.

He sat across from me, long legs stretched toward the fire. For once he didn't press about secrets. Instead he nodded toward the shelf where my small collection of vintage paperweights sat like tiny talismans. I'd unpacked them yesterday in a fit of needing stability, glass orbs and brass figures catching the light.

"Those yours?" he asked, tone lighter than I'd heard since the muffins incident. "They don't fit the minimalist aesthetic I usually inflict on this place."

I shrugged, twisting my ring. "Anchors. Something solid when everything else shifts. Picked them up in foster homes, flea markets. The blue one with the fern inside? That was my mother's."

He studied them a moment, then stood and crossed to a built-in cabinet. When he opened it, rows of worn paperbacks spilled into view—vintage sci-fi with cracked spines and faded covers. Asimov. Heinlein. A dog-eared copy of Dune that looked read to death.

"My collection," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in what might have been embarrassment. The gesture humanized him dangerously. "Doesn't match the tech billionaire brand. My ex used to mock them. Said they were proof I preferred fictional worlds to real ones."

The admission hung between us, rawer than his earlier confession about her betrayal. I saw it then—the cost of his control, the way trust had been weaponized against him. My paperweights for his paperbacks. Two guarded people trading tiny pieces of vulnerability like currency in a game neither wanted to lose.

"I like that one," I said, pointing to a cover with a spaceship that looked hand-painted. "Read it in high school. Escaped into it during bad placements."

His eyes met mine, something soft flickering there before the analytical mask returned. "We have more in common than either of us planned."

The moment stretched, comfortable for three whole seconds. Then his laptop chimed from the great room. Secure message. The board. Or worse—Marcus.

Cristian stood, breaking the contact. I followed, legs shaky from more than the earlier dizziness. He opened the message, screen glowing harsh in the afternoon light. His posture went rigid as he read.

I peered over his shoulder, heart sinking. New evidence attached. Timestamps. Access logs. And a grainy photo—us leaving the office together the night of our one-night stand. My hand on his arm. His head bent close like he was whispering something filthy. The timestamp matched perfectly. Below it, Marcus's smooth, condescending note: The board wants answers about this relationship by next week... or we move to terminate. Both of you.

The cake from earlier turned to lead in my stomach. Cristian's jaw clenched. His hand found the small of my back instinctively, protective even now. But his eyes when they met mine held storm clouds—betrayal, obsession, and something I couldn't quite name.

"Stella," he said, voice dangerously quiet. "I think it's time we stopped pretending this is just about the scandal."