13. Gen
Chapter 13
Gen
I ’m not better.
I thought I was. Thought I could chalk it up to stress or fatigue or whatever vague word people use when their bodies rebel. But it’s been over a week since I nearly fainted and vomited my entire breakfast at Silas’s tasting meeting and I’m still dragging.
Some days are fine. Others, not so much. Honestly, I’ve been taking it hour by hour.
My stomach twists at the smell of Evie’s favorite lavender detergent, and coffee—once my emotional support beverage—is now a full-body betrayal. I’ve thrown up several times this week. Once at the sight of soft-boiled eggs. Once just because some guy at the grocery store was wearing too much cologne.
But I’ve been busy. Between circling back on Silas’s gala venue, updating Max’s concept deck, and scheduling a walkthrough for a bridal shower client with far too many opinions about flowers, I haven’t had time to spiral.
Until this morning.
I’m curled up on the couch with a blanket around my shoulders and dry toast on my plate, pretending I’m not trying to keep down a glass of ginger ale, when Evie strolls into the room mid-scroll. She pauses in the doorway, looks at me, looks at the toast, then tilts her head.
“You’re not dying, are you?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Just queasy.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “And the day before that. And also the day you almost passed out in the catering kitchen.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’re never just tired.” She sits on the edge of the coffee table, her expression shifting from curious to suspicious in the space of a breath. “You’re pale. And unless you’re secretly auditioning for a ginger ale sponsorship, I’m gonna say you’ve been drinking too much of that stuff.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. And we both know it.” She leans in. “When was your last period?”
The question lands with the kind of quiet horror that no one prepares you for.
My heart skips. Stutters actually.
I blink. “I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say, too fast. “My cycle’s irregular sometimes. It’s probably just stress. Or hormones. Or?—”
Evie holds up a finger. “Don’t say food poisoning. That excuse expired three nausea fits ago.”
I shake my head, but my hands have already started to tremble. I set the toast down.
Evie straightens. “Oh my God. Gen.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Gen.”
I stand. I sit back down. I press both palms into my thighs and try to remember the exact moment my world started tilting.
“I can’t be.”
She’s already grabbing her purse. “You can. And we’re getting a test.”
“Evie—”
“Nope.” Her tone sharpens with purpose. “No arguments. No denial spirals. Get your shoes on. We’re going to the pharmacy.”
We don’t speak on the drive.
Evie’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel. I’m not much better. I keep replaying everything in my head. The island. Sebastian. The suite. His office. The hot tub.
No condom. Not once those last couple of days.
After I’d given him permission in his office, he never asked. I never insisted. I was too overwhelmed. Too caught up. I thought I knew my body well enough to take the minimal risk. Minimal my ass.
My stomach turns.
Evie parks in a red zone. She clearly doesn’t care about that. She drags me into the pharmacy, ignores the side-eyed looks we get from a teenager stocking lip balm, and buys five different brands of pregnancy tests.
Back at the apartment, I take them one by one. Line them up on the bathroom counter. Then I sit on the floor and try not to hyperventilate.
Evie sits beside me, her knee pressed to mine. She doesn’t say anything. Just waits.
One beep. Then another. Then three more as the timers on her phone go off.
I stare at the row of sticks.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Evie exhales sharply through her nose. “Okay. So. We’re gonna breathe. We’re gonna sit with this. And then we’re gonna figure out what comes next.”
But I can’t breathe. Not properly.
Because I’m pregnant.
Pregnant.
With Sebastian Wolfe’s baby.
And he hasn’t spoken to me in weeks.
I stand. My limbs feel heavy. I grab my phone, fingers numb, and open the thread I swore I wouldn’t open again.
Me: Thank you for the referrals. I hope you’ve been well.
No response.
I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers. Then?—
Me: I need to speak with you. It’s important.
I watch the little “read” notification flash beneath the message.
And then…nothing.
No reply. No call. Just silence.
Evie’s voice comes soft, cautious. “He saw it?”
I nod.
Evie is silent for all of three seconds before she shoots to her feet, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “Unbelievable. That arrogant, suit-wearing slab of emotional repression actually read it and didn’t answer? Again?”
I nod again, slower this time.
She starts pacing. “You’re pregnant. With his child. And he just leaves you on read? I’m gonna key his car. No—scratch that—I’m gonna key every car he owns. I’m gonna key his yacht.”
“Evie…”
“No. No, Gen. This is war. He can’t just ghost you after…” She gestures wildly toward the bathroom. “That. After everything. After tying you up and whispering all that possessive nonsense into your ear like a man ready to set fire to the world just to keep you.”
I press my palms into my temples, head bowed. My skin feels thin. Too loud. That doesn't make sense. I don't think I care.
She spins back toward me. “Do you want me to leak it to the press? I will. I will give the gossip blogs an anonymous tip so fast?—”
“Evie, please.” My voice barely comes out.
She stops short. Her expression softens the moment she sees my face. “Gen…”
“I can’t. Not right now.”
Because all I can think about is the way he looked at me that last morning. The way he touched me like I meant something. The way he walked away like I didn’t.
I curl in on myself, pulling the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders. The silence stretches as Evie lowers herself gently onto the couch beside me. She doesn't speak again. Just stays there, quiet, close.
And I retreat into the only thing I have left—myself.
Because I have no idea what comes next.
* * *
I’ve never been more aware of my body.
Not in the self-conscious, I-hope-my-blazer-doesn’t-wrinkle kind of way. Not even in the post-Sebastian, legs-shaking, skin-still-humming-from-touch kind of way.
This is different.
This is the awareness that something inside me has shifted. That there is a line between before and after, and I’ve crossed it without a map or a guide or any idea what I’m supposed to do next.
And now I’m walking into a meeting with one of the most powerful men I’ve ever worked with, trying to act like my life isn’t unraveling at the seams.
Max is already seated when I step into the conference room. His gaze lifts immediately, and I feel his sharp gaze as he assesses me on the spot. He doesn’t offer a smile, just a subtle nod of acknowledgment that makes my throat tighten.
But then I notice he’s not alone.
There’s another man in the room—lounging in the chair beside him, legs stretched out, one arm draped casually across the arm like he’s claimed the entire room by sheer force of presence. It takes me a half-second to register who it is, and another half to remember how to breathe.
Silas Whitmore.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
At least, no one told me he would be.
He looks up at me with a grin that could disarm most security systems. Broad shoulders. Relaxed posture. A button undone at his collar, sleeves rolled. The kind of effortless charm that makes you forget your own name if you’re not careful.
And suddenly, my already-knotted stomach twists tighter.
“Morning, G,” Silas says, his voice low and warm. “Looking sharp.”
“Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to fidget or vomit or cry. “Sorry I’m a few minutes behind. Traffic.”
“You’re fine,” Max says. His tone is clipped, businesslike. But his eyes don’t leave my face. “Have a seat.”
I do, carefully. My hands shake just enough to make clicking my pen feel like a small battle. I flip open my folder and launch into the first segment of the updated proposal, forcing my voice into something steady and practiced. I talk through the timeline. The vendor coordination. The design strategy.
They listen. Silas nods occasionally. Max asks a few pointed questions.
But something’s wrong. I know it. I feel it.
Not with them—with me.
I miss a cue on one of the design boards. Stumble over a vendor name I’ve known for five years. And when I catch myself gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn my knuckles white, I realize they’ve both gone quiet.
Max narrows his eyes. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just—long week.”
Silas shifts in his chair, watching me closely now. “You sure? You’re pale.”
“I’m okay.” My smile feels tight. “Just a little off today. Didn’t sleep much.”
Neither of them looks convinced.
“Let’s take a break,” Max says, already pushing back from the table.
“I don’t need a?—”
“Ten minutes,” he says firmly, and walks out.
Silas doesn’t move.
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice gentler now. “Genevieve.”
The way he says my name nearly undoes me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Really.”
“You’re not.”
I glance down at my lap. My hands. The flat expanse of my stomach, where everything has changed and no one can see it yet.
Silas is quiet for a beat. Then he exhales and says, “You didn’t have to come in today. You could’ve rescheduled.”
“I couldn’t.” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t risk looking unprofessional. Not after…”
Not after Sebastian. Not after the note. Not after being ignored. Definitely not after the last meeting with Silas.
Silas shifts again, this time sliding his chair a little closer. “Hey, look at me.”
I do.
And I hate that my eyes sting.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he says, voice low, steady. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me or Max. You’re already in.”
The kindness in his voice is almost too much.
I nod quickly, eyes on my folder, blinking fast.
He doesn’t push. He just sits there, quiet. Present. And that, somehow, is worse. I can handle pressure. I can handle confrontation. But this—this gentle patience from a man who should be a walking distraction—is unraveling me.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” I say finally, voice thin but audible. “I’m just…adjusting.”
“To what?” he asks, though not unkindly.
Everything. My body. My brain. The truth I haven’t even said out loud yet.
“Life stuff,” I say instead. “It’s complicated.”
Silas nods like he understands more than I’m saying. Maybe he does. He doesn’t push or ask the questions I can’t answer. Instead, he nudges the untouched glass of water toward me, the one the assistant brought in with the coffee service.
I take it. Sip. It helps.
The door opens again and Max steps back inside. He doesn’t sit immediately. Just scans the room, and then me. His gaze lingers.
“We good to continue?”
I force a smile. “Yes. Sorry about earlier. Won’t happen again.”
He nods. Accepts it. But I catch the flicker of something behind his eyes—curiosity maybe. Or concern. I can’t tell.
We finish the rest of the meeting. I find my footing again. Words come easier when there’s structure to hide behind. Planning timelines. Cost projections. Floral installation diagrams. I can recite those in my sleep.
Still, I catch Silas watching me more than once. Not in the way Sebastian used to—with intensity laced with hunger—but with something softer. Worry, maybe. Or intuition.
When the meeting ends, I gather my things slowly, acutely aware of my body again—the ache in my back, the faint pull of nausea.
Max gives a brief nod, distracted by a call already ringing through his earpiece.
Silas walks me to the elevator.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again once we’re out of earshot.
I smile. It’s small, but real. “No.”
He huffs a breath of amusement. “Points for honesty.”
The elevator dings. I step inside, pulse still too fast.
“Thanks for not making a scene,” I say, pressing the button for the lobby.
“Thanks for not passing out,” he shoots back with a grin. “You’re too heavy to carry twice.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Then the doors slide shut between us, and I’m alone again—with my folder, my symptoms, and a truth I still haven’t said out loud.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant and the father doesn’t know. Doesn’t seem to want to. But I’ll keep trying.