Chapter 19 #2
Another wave. My knees threaten to buckle and I lock them, refusing to go down.
The louvered door swings open.
Kelsey takes one look at me—pale, swaying, white-knuckled grip on the wall—and she's inside, her arm around my waist, steadying me with a strength that belies her lean frame.
"I've got you. Easy."
Professional. Calm. No panic in her voice, just competence. The competence of someone who's handled a lot worse than fainting. She helps me sit on the small bench. Keeps one hand on my shoulder, grounding, steady. Her presence is an anchor in a room that won't stop spinning.
“Is she okay?” Serena’s worried voice filters through my daze. “Is there anything I can do?”
Kelsey’s focus stays fixed on me as she replies. “Glass of water, please. Cool, damp cloth if you have one.”
“Of course.” Serena vanishes to carry out the request.
"Head between your knees if you need to, Avery,” Kelsey tells me. “Breathe slowly."
I obey because I don't have the strength to do anything else. The change of position helps. Blood returns to my head in a rush that makes my ears ring, but the worst of the dizziness ebbs. I'm left shaky and embarrassed, half-dressed and helpless in a dressing room the size of a large closet.
"I'm okay," I manage. "Just stood up too fast. The room was warm—"
"You're white as a sheet." Kelsey's voice is kind and calm, but allows no argument. "When did you last eat?"
I hesitate. She can probably guess the answer.
"That's what I thought."
Serena is there immediately. Water in a crystal glass, a cool cloth that she presses to my forehead with genuine concern creasing her features. "Take your time. You’re not the first bride-to-be to faint in my studio. I just want to be sure you’re okay."
I manage a weak smile. "Just lightheaded. I'm sorry. I probably didn't eat enough this morning, that’s all."
Kelsey and Serena help me into my clothes. Blouse first, then the skirt I'd worn to the appointment. Their hands are steady where mine are trembling. I can't manage my own buttons, and I hate this. Hate being weak, hate being a problem, hate being the center of a scene I never asked to create.
"I'm fine," I say again. Trying to convince myself as much as anyone else.
Kelsey meets my gaze. “I think I should call an ambulance, just to be safe.”
“No.” I vigorously shake my head, which is a mistake. The wooziness threatens again, and I inhale a deep breath to hold it at bay. “I don’t want to cause a scene.” I lower my voice to a tight whisper. “The press will come, Kelsey…”
She gives me a dubious, yet sympathetic, look but doesn't argue. Now that I’m dressed, she guides me out to the larger fitting room with a hand at my elbow. “You need to sit and relax for a minute. Do you need more water?”
“No. I’m fine. It helped.”
She steers me to one of the elegant settees arranged for clients to observe fittings, and I sink onto it with a gratitude I can't hide.
The room spins once, then settles. The worst has passed, but I feel wrung out. Hollow. Like someone reached inside me and scooped out everything solid.
“I found a packet of crackers in the break room,” Serena says, rushing over to hand them to me.
I tear them open and munch on a corner of a saltine while Yuki hovers nearby, worry pulling at her usually composed expression.
Clara looks stricken. She’s young enough that she's probably never seen a client nearly collapse.
Sofia, the lace specialist, has retreated several steps but watches with soft concern, her hands clasped in front of her.
“There now. Your color’s looking better already.” Serena murmurs more reassurances, adjusting the cool cloth on my forehead. Her touch is gentle. Professional but caring.
Despite my embarrassment, something in me loosens at their concern. These women barely know me, but they've gathered around as though my wellbeing matters. As though I'm more important than the appointment, the dress, or the schedule they've carefully arranged.
It's not Nick's fierce, consuming protectiveness, but something else. It's kindness. And right now, kindness helps. I look up, taking in the faces around me. The concern. The empathy.
Nadiyah stands apart from her colleagues, near her workstation, the veil still draped across her hands like she never set it down. She doesn’t join the others fussing over me, not that I need or want one more person panicking when I’m sure this is nothing.
God, I hope this is nothing. What if it’s not? What if it’s the baby?
"Avery."
Kelsey's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. She's crouched beside my chair. Close. Her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
Her expression is calm, but her eyes are serious. This isn't a suggestion coming.
"I have a duty to make sure you’re all right. So, either I'm calling 911 or I’m calling Nick. Your choice."
There’s no contest at all. Calling 911 means ambulances. EMTs. The press. It means risking this pregnancy becoming public knowledge before I've even had a chance to tell my own mother.
I want Nick. I want his hand at the back of my neck, his voice in my ear telling me I'm fine, that he's got me, that nothing will touch me while he's there.
I need him right now, even if everything’s okay.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Please call Nick.”