Chapter 25
AMARA
Relief crashes over me when he picks up.
I wasn’t expecting it. It was a last-ditch effort. Knowing Ransome, he’s busy running his empire. Or playing husband to Jenica. Probably both.
But he answers me anyway.
“It’s the baby,” I blurt. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m on my way.”
I can literally hear his feet moving. There’s background chatter, the easy notes of classical music in the air, but it all fades as he strides out of wherever the hell he is.
He’s coming. He’s rushing over.
But will he be fast enough?
“Should I call 911?” I realize I’m panicking, but between the stabbing pain in my abdomen and what I saw out my window just moments ago, it’s fair to say I’m not at my best. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it really hurts. Like, my belly keeps tightening up and my back is spasming and—”
“No. Don’t call 911.” I hear a car door slam. “I’m nearby. I’ll take you to the hospital myself.”
“What about Jenica?” I ask. I know what he is. I know who he’s with. Because, even to this day, I know his schedule. And today is an annual charity gala.
“Jenica’s a big girl. She can figure it out.”
If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d get a little bit of an ego boost about that.
But I am in pain. Excruciating pain that comes and goes in waves, and all I can think is that I’m in early labor.
“I’m scared, Ransome,” I sob into the phone. “Oh God!” I double over on the floor as another wave rolls over my body.
“What is it?” he asks. “Amara, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know!”
I’m doing everything in my power to breathe through it. But breathing isn’t easy when your spine feels like it’s about to snap in half.
“Do you think it was the massage?” he asks. “Do you think they triggered something?”
“It was a prenatal massage,” I say. “I don’t know. I don’t—” I am cut off as the pain rips through me, and all I can do is whimper.
“I’m almost there, dorogoya.” Ransome’s voice has never sounded sweeter, all softness and concern. Like he’s a different man entirely. “I’m almost there.”
I let the sound soothe me through the next wave of pain.
The next hour is a blur as Ransome rushes me to the ER.
I can hear him questioning everyone, demanding answers, even talking in Russian to one of the doctors—he really does have connections everywhere—as the nurses move around me.
They’re taking vitals, running a blood panel, running an IV and prepping an ultrasound. It’s a lot.
And meanwhile, I’m in pain. So much pain.
The second the doctor steps back from me, Ransome is at his heels. “So? What is it?!”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news.”
I think Ransome might just rip his dick off. “Tell me,” he snarls, “what’s wrong with her.”
“The good news is, they’re not real contractions.”
“I was having contractions?” I ask, placing my hand on my belly.
“Braxton-Hicks. Also known as false labor. It’s common in the third trimester, but can still be painful.”
“God.” I let my head fall back onto the pillow, halfway between relieved and terrified. “If that’s the fake version, I can’t imagine how badly the real ones will suck.”
The doctor smiles again. He must not value his life very much. Ransome has probably killed for less.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he says.
“But for now, we have you on a couple medications that should prevent the contractions from escalating as well as help with pain. And the pain you’re feeling is also due to the baby shifting positions.
He’s a healthy boy, and he’s got his shoulder resting right against your sciatic nerve.
We can coax him away from it, and that should help a lot. ”
“So she’s not in any immediate danger?” Ransome asks, his questions like bullets.
“No,” the doctor says. “Though to be honest, your blood pressure is a little high. Higher than I would like.”
Of course it is. Nothing like a labor scare and hallucinating the literal Slenderman out the window to get a girl’s blood pumping.
“What can we do about that?” Ransome asks.
“Less stress,” the doctor says.
“So bed rest?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. If anything, light activity, things Amara enjoys, would actually be healthier.
Things that bring her joy or peace. Things that help the time pass.
Things that stimulate the mind. That’s what I would recommend.
” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “And if the baby decides to punch you in the nerves again, take a warm bath, get him to relax, and see if you can coax him into another position. We will keep you overnight just to be safe, but overall, you’re going to be fine. Baby too.”
With that, the doctor leaves us. The room is quiet other than the beeping of the machines I’m still hooked to. I lean back in the bed, exhausted but grateful to be free of pain. Although I do feel kind of silly.
“Braxton-Hicks,” I repeat, rubbing my belly softly.
Ransome, however, is less than relaxed. He shoves himself away from his chair and paces the room. “This would have never happened if I hadn’t booked that massage,” he snaps.
“I don’t know if that’s true. It’s not like she touched my belly.”
“And you didn’t go straight home. I know you were hungry, but Ivan could have ordered food for you. You should have gone straight home. You need to rest. Avoid overstimulation.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sorry. Did you not hear anything the doctor just said? Bed rest is not the answer. I am understimulated, Ransome. Jesus. I went from a very hectic and busy life to stagnant. Shut up in a house that feels more like a prison than a home.”
Ransome whirls around to face me. “Is my estate not good enough for you?”
“Not when I am condemned there all by myself, no! Buckingham Palace wouldn’t be good enough if I was alone! I need to be around people. Friends. To have a job. To not be arguing with you when the doctor literally just said that I need more going on in my life!”
Ransome opens his mouth to say something and then snaps it shut. “No. You know what, you’re right. No more fighting.”
“Thank you,” I say, though I am still feeling pretty salty.
Ransome’s phone has been blowing up nonstop. He’s been avoiding it, but I can still hear it. “You should get that,” I mumble.
Instead of answering, he plops down in the chair next to me, lets out a decompressive sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Work going okay?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. I know the answer.
“Work is on fire,” he says without opening his eyes.
“More than usual?” I try to joke. He’s not smiling, not that I’m shocked.
Instead, he looks at me, sitting up straight and talking with his hands.
“So much more than usual. It’s bad enough that Tristan is on the loose, clearly up to something, but every day that I walk into the office it’s like a new and improved shitshow.
Do you have any idea how many assistants I have gone through since you left? ”
“You mean since you fired me?”
Probably not the best question to ask, but he did fire me. He can vent about his work misfortunes all he wants, but I’m done feeding the narrative that he didn’t bring it upon himself.
Still. Maybe not the best place and time to address that.
I shoot him an apologetic look. “Sorry. Go on. How many?”
His jaw works for a moment. “Five,” he says. “At least five. And I just fired the new one without a replacement, which means I’m fucked. So Janine is running around like a headless chicken trying to figure out how to do two jobs.”
“Who’s Janine?” I ask, and he throws his hands up.
“Exactly! I need someone competent. Someone who knows how I like things and can do them right the first time. I need—”
“Me,” I tell him. “You need me.”
He stops. Looks right at me. “That’s out of the question.”
I sit up straight—well, straighter. “Why? Think about it. Being back in the office would get me out of the house. It would give me purpose.”
“It would be stressful,” he argues.
And I laugh. “Oh, please. Being your assistant isn’t that bad. It’s just a coffee order, a detailed daily schedule with room to breathe, and an organized dry-cleaning schedule. I could do it in my sleep.”
Ransome stares at me, his mouth slack and his eyebrows furrowed. He’s annoyed. Because he knows I’m right. He knows it would be good for me.
But more than that, he knows he’s not going to find anyone else that can handle it.
“Nobody knows you like I do,” I say. It’s an understatement and he knows it.
After a long moment of him biting a hard bullet, he sniffs and holds a leveled hand out to me. “If you come back to the office—”
I perk up.
“Hold on. I said if. If you come back to the office, it will be for Apex only. No more digging around in my other affairs,” he says, keeping his voice low.
“And no worrying about things that don’t concern you.
I will keep you safe. I will make sure that end of my life is running smoothly.
You will assist with Apex work and Apex work only. ”
“Done,” I say, clapping my hands before melting back into the bed again. “Oh. One other thing,” I say. “I want to join a gym.”
“No. You have a gym at home.”
“I want to do yoga.”
“You can do yoga at home. There’s a screen and mirrors. You don’t need to go to a studio for that.”
“I do if I want to make sure I’m doing it correctly. I need to be spotted if I am doing prenatal yoga. It’s safest for me and the baby.”
Ransome bites the inside of his cheek and his jaw flexes. He knows I’m right. “Fine,” he says. “With a driver.”
“Deal.”
I swear to God, this is the best day of my life. It’s kind of pathetic. But honestly, I don’t really care.
I get to leave the house. I get to take care of Ransome’s needs again. I get to do yoga.
What else could a girl want?