Chapter 5
GABBY
Six weeks later…
My life for the last month and a half has been an endless parade of spreadsheets, late nights, and enough caffeine to fuel an army. Somewhere between that night with Sasha and now, I decided to lock in, to stop bothering to even count the days.
And it’s worked. Not only am I on the verge of getting the first full draft of the merger done, but Sasha actually held to his word and backed off.
The threat did the job. Just like he said he’d do, he eased up—no late-night emails, no Sunday texts during brunch, no requests to stay super late. He’s still bossy, scary as hell, but there’s no doubt that something shifted. It’s like we’ve called a truce.
Truth is, it’s a little unnerving. Almost like I’d gotten psychologically hooked on his bossy bullshit. Or maybe he’d finally developed a little trust, realized I actually know how to do my job, and that micromanaging me like a child wasn’t helping.
Either way, the merger proposal draft is nearly finished.
Almost two months of my blood, sweat, and Excel expertise poured into an offer that might just be good enough to get Johan Morozov to say yes.
But there’s a brutal deadline—if we don’t lock this thing down before the quarter closes and the SEC filing hits, AngelCorp won’t be able to move crypto assets in time.
That would leave Sasha totally exposed in the market.
And that means my job would be vulnerable, too.
“So basically,” I mutter to no one in particular at my desk, rubbing my temples as I stare down the numbers, “the fate of Sasha’s empire rests on my pivot tables. No pressure.”
It’s not just Sasha’s annoyingly sexy ass on the line—my pride is, too.
I’ve spent three years at AngelCorp, dealing with his power games and impossible demands.
If I pull this proposal off, I’ll prove myself indispensable.
I’d be able to get the hell out of this place and practically write my own ticket.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles until they start to blur. The room tilts—just slightly at first, then more.
“Shit,” I say to myself. “Not again.”
I’ve been through this enough over the last few weeks to know what’s next. Sure enough, a wave of nausea moves up my throat, sharp and sudden. I grab the edge of my desk, holding onto it for dear life, and breathing through the nausea and dizziness until they fade.
Finally, they do. I’m lucky—the last couple of times this happened, I’d needed to run to the ladies room and toss up my Sweetgreen.
When the feeling finally fades, I pick up my phone and check my calendar. It’s still there—the doctor’s appointment I booked a few days ago, when I realized these spells weren’t going away. It’s two hours from now at a clinic in Lincoln Park.
I hate the idea of taking time off to go to the doctor today, wasting precious hours right before the deadline. But the last thing I need is to get sick.
I run my hand through my hair, feeling a little clammy and chilly.
“Stress,” I tell myself, trying to manifest in the most desperate way possible. “Has to be stress.”
The clinic is in a building with a hip bar at ground level, a comic book shop on the second, and the doctor’s office on the third.
The office smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee. It’s one of those quiet weekday afternoons, when everything feels just a little sleepy, a little rundown. February in Chicago always seems to have this gray, worn-out sort of vibe.
I sit in the waiting room, one leg bouncing, my free hand scrolling through my work inbox to make sure I’m not missing one of Sasha’s classic, cryptic one-line emails.
The receptionist calls out a name that’s not mine. A baby cries somewhere down the hall. I press my fingers to my temples again. I feel so weird, like my head’s full of static and tissue paper.
“Ms. Resse?”
I look up. A nurse stands there smiling, a clipboard in her hands. I follow her down the narrow hall to an exam room that’s a little colder than I’d expected. Pale blue walls, a motivational poster about self-care, the familiar crinkle of exam table paper underneath me.
The nurse takes some preliminary info, getting a handle on the symptoms. Her eyes flick down to my leg as she speaks.
“A little nervous?”
“Huh?” I glance down where she’s looking to see that my leg is bouncing up and down.
My hand shoots to my knee, stopping it. “Well, nervous habit.” I should stop there, but I can’t help myself.
“And a little worried about this being something worse than it is. I’ve got too much work to take any sick days, you know? ”
She smiles and nods, as if she knows exactly what I mean. “I get it. I’ll let the doctor know you’re ready. She should be here in just a few.”
“Thanks.”
The nurse leaves, and I’m alone. As soon as she’s gone, my leg starts bouncing again. A few minutes later, the doctor comes in. She introduces herself with a handshake that’s professional and comforting all at once.
“So.” She glances down at her chart. “Nausea, headaches, all that good stuff.”
“I’m 90 percent sure it’s just stress. Has to be. I’m totally bogged down at work, in the middle of the biggest project of my life. My career kind of hangs in the balance here.”
She nods. Maybe she gets it, maybe she thinks I’m crazy. Maybe a little of both.
“And how’s your appetite?”
“Barely having anything that’s not caffeinated. But now that I think about it, certain foods have been sounding awful to me, like, totally unappealing.”
“Such as?”
“Well, booze for one. I’ve never been a huge drinker, but even the thought of having a drink makes me sick to my stomach.” And so does even talking about it. I place my hand on my belly, trying to calm down the lurch.
“And your sleep?”
“Erratic. Restless. But that’s not new.”
She nods, jots a few more things down. “Alright. We’re going to run a few quick tests—blood pressure, maybe some labs. And a urine sample, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind at all.”
Dr. Park hands me a plastic cup, and I take it like it’s a pencil for a school test I’m about to ace. I head down the hall, hit the bathroom, and do my business. When that’s all done, I hand the sample off to the waiting nurse and head back to the exam room.
And there I sit, each minute seeming to take far, far too long.
When Dr. Park returns, she’s wearing a look that doesn’t quite match my hope of her telling me I’m just tired and need to get some sleep. She closes the door behind her quietly and sits down on the little stool across from the table.
“Oh no,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
A small smile forms on her lips. “Nothing at all. Just some news I’m guessing you might not be expecting.”
My blood runs cold. “Yes?”
“Gabriella, you’re pregnant.”
For a second, the word doesn’t fit inside my head. It bounces around, like she just said something foreign. Then it lands. My throat tightens, and I laugh—too loud, too sharp.
“Pregnant? No way. That’s impossible! I mean, I’m on the pill. And I’ve only had sex once in, like, a year. More than that.”
“One time is all it takes,” she says. “And what pill are you on?”
“Sprintec. And I take it every day.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Every day?”
Silence hangs in the air for several long moments.
“Well, almost every day, when I can remember. Okay, sometimes I forget to take it. Or I take it late, and—God, I sound like an idiot.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t, not at all. It happens more often than you think, especially with busy women like you.”
I want to argue or negotiate or something, anything. But the words don’t come. The walls of the exam room seem to lean closer, the hum of the overhead lights suddenly too loud.
“I can’t be pregnant. No. That’s… I have a deadline.”
Dr. Park gives a soft, sympathetic laugh. “Deadlines are flexible. Biology isn’t.”
“Not this deadline.”
I press my palms against my face, taking in deep breaths through my fingers. My mind races through practical details—timelines, dates, logistics.
The night I marched into Sasha’s office flashes like a lightning strike in my mind. I think about his hands in my hair, his voice.
A numb ache fills my chest.
Dr. Park places her hand on my knee, pulling me back from spiraling. “Gabriella, I can tell this is a shock. But you don’t have to make any big decisions right now. Let’s take it one step at a time.
“Right.” I already feel a little calmer. “One step.”
“How about this—do you have someone to talk to? Family, partner, friend?”
“No family,” I say, suddenly feeling very TMI. “Been in foster care since my mom died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “How about friends?”
“There’s Angie… but this would be so much to dump on her. Other than that, work is everything. Pathetic, huh?”
“Not even a little. I’m sure your friend would love to know. But tell her at your pace. No need to rush into this. How about the father? Is he in the picture?”
Yes? No? I mean, I see him every day. But in the picture?
“He’s… around,” I manage. “But not in, like, an involved way. I mean, he’s not a bad guy or anything…” Or is he? I don’t even know who Sasha is outside of work. Or if there is a “Sasha outside of work.”
She nods again, then jots a quick note. No baby daddy, I imagine it saying.
“I understand—it’s complicated. But you’ll need support. And prenatal care, of course. That’s assuming you want to keep the pregnancy.”
“I do.” The words shoot out of me suddenly, with an intensity that surprises me. But I know they’re true. I want this baby.
She smiles. “Very good. We have an excellent OB/GYN on staff. But you’re under no obligation.”
“I will. I mean, that sounds good. Let’s do that.”
“Perfect. If you like, I can introduce you to Dr. Marquez now. She’s seen it all, so you’re in good hands.”
“That’d be amazing. I just… I don’t know what else to do.”
Dr. Park hands me a tissue, a gesture of kindness that makes my eyes sting with tears. “For now, just breathe. Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. We can set up a follow-up appointment today.”
“That sounds good. Thank you so much.”
Another smile. “Happy to help. And whatever happens, it’s going to be OK. Trust me—I’m a doctor.”
She winks, and I manage a small laugh, a relieved laugh. Then Dr. Park gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“I’ll go get Dr. Marquez. Sit tight.”
When she leaves, the vibe in the room suddenly feels heavier than before. My phone buzzes, Sasha’s name lighting up the screen. The reality that I’m going to have to keep this pregnancy from him for the time being takes hold.
I don’t answer the phone. Instead, I press a shaking hand to my stomach. It’s strange—almost like I can feel little he or she in there already.
Then I glance down at the phone again. The first call attempt ended, and another one started. What if he’s spying on me, has a bug in this room, and knows somehow already?
It sounds insane, but at the same time, not.
Either way, I’m going to have to tell him, eventually. That night was a month and a half ago, which means I’ve got, what, three months before I start showing? He’s a smart guy—he’ll put two and two together.
I get up and wash my face at the little sink. My reflection in the stainless steel looks back at me—tired eyes, flat mouth, droopy hair. For the first time in a long time, I have no idea what I’m going to do.