Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nick
I wake to the sound of snoring.
Soft. Rhythmic. Not quite chainsaw level, but with just enough drama to suggest someone’s fighting for their life in a dream.
For a second, I think it’s Sara. Then I hear a tiny grunt.
Ah. There it is. The duet.
I crack an eye open, and the problem presents itself in high definition.
Sara’s curled against me, one leg tangled over mine, her arm draped across my stomach, her curls a mess. There’s drool on her lip. She looks angelic.
And then there’s Meatball.
The world’s most judgmental bulldog is pancaked between us, his squashed face buried in the comforter, his ass pointed directly at me. He lets out a particularly aggressive snuffle, his jowls flapping, then twitches his back leg.
If that dog dreams of anything other than hot dogs and general destruction, I’ll eat my tie.
I try to shift without disturbing anyone, but Meatball lets out a sound that can only be described as a huff—how dare I move when he’s clearly in REM? One of his eyes cracks open to glare at me, then shuts again with dramatic finality.
Right.
I stare at the two of them, Sara, soft and sleep-wrecked, one hand resting on her belly, and Meatball, dead to the world, smelling vaguely of peanut butter and betrayal. Something in my chest tightens.
This is my bed.
My home.
And they’re here. They’ve always been here. They belong.
Which, frankly, is alarming.
Except for the part where I’m dangerously close to Googling how to make waffles from scratch and signing us up for a couples’ pottery class.
I rub a hand over my face and check the time.
6:03 a.m.
Of course it is. My circadian rhythm is a cruel, type-A dictator with no regard for cuddles or bulldogs.
Still, I stay for a moment.
Just watching.
Sara’s brow furrows slightly in her sleep. Even unconscious, she’s expecting the next crisis to arrive by express delivery. Her hand tightens a little over her belly.
Three babies. Three Ashfords in utero. That’s not a pregnancy, that’s a corporate takeover.
And yet, somehow, I’m not panicking.
I should be. The old me, the one with spreadsheets for feelings and a ten-year plan that didn’t include sticky hands or nursery themes, he’d be halfway to the airport by now.
But I don’t want to run.
I want this.
I want her.
Which is inconvenient, to say the least.
Carefully, I extract myself from the tangle of limbs and dog. Sara shifts with a sleepy mumble but doesn’t wake. Meatball lets out a death sigh and stretches further into my pillow… the smug little dictator he is.
I jot down a note on the hotel stationery from the nightstand drawer.
Stay in bed. Take the day. Rest. I’ll handle the world until you’re ready to rejoin it. —N
I set it where she’ll see it, then grab a suit from the closet and head for the door.
Because I’ve got a mysterious woman to track down, a security breach to contain, and, apparently, a new family to protect.
Also, I think we’re out of garlic knots.
So, yeah. Crisis mode.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The elevator ride to the executive floor passes in complete silence. No one approaches, and I don’t make an effort to engage.
Given the state I’m in, I can’t blame them. Three hours of sleep and a night spent wrestling a bulldog in my dreams leave me looking like I’ve been through a battle. Because, in truth, I have.
Jonah is already in my office when I arrive. He’s standing by the window, holding a mug of something far too green for my liking, a mild concern evident on his face.
His expression says it all—he’s waiting for a public breakdown. A meltdown, perhaps. The kind of moment when the line between chaos and clarity disappears, and everyone around you wonders how you’ll handle it.
“Morning,” he says, cautiously. “You look… different.”
I drop my briefcase onto the couch and immediately go for my tie, loosening it in one swift motion. “I just got spooned by a French bulldog,” I reply dryly.
Jonah nods as if this explains everything he needs to know. “That actually answers a lot of questions I hadn’t asked.”
I rub a hand over my jaw and walk straight to the liquor cabinet, but not for whiskey. It’s too early for that, and the situation demands clarity. Instead, I pull out the emergency espresso pods I keep hidden behind the bottles.
“We need to find out who Isla Vale is. Now.”
Jonah straightens, the wheels in his mind turning at full speed. “The name on the tips? The anonymous leak?”
“She’s not just writing the gossip,” I say, turning to hand him the tablet with the security report.
I flip to the grainy image of the hooded figure loitering just outside the executive offices.
“She’s coordinating it. This was two nights ago.
Security tracked her movements. Whoever it was bypassed the garage entrance, used a secondary stairwell.
No keycard, no sign in. Someone let her in. ”
Jonah frowns, his expression sharpening with realization. “You think it’s Isla?”
“I think it’s someone feeding her. Someone with internal access and a very personal vendetta.”
Jonah mutters a curse under his breath as he sinks into the chair opposite my desk. “Christ. I knew the Rebecca situation would come back to bite us, but this… this is coordinated.”
I exhale slowly, focusing on the weight of my words. “It’s not just about me and Sara anymore. This is about everything. Someone is trying to destroy all of it.”
Jonah’s eyes flick to mine, understanding the gravity of what I’m saying.
I hesitate, the weight of what I’m about to say pressing down on me. But I trust Jonah. I need someone else to carry this burden, someone to help navigate the chaos. I lean back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest, and finally speak the truth I’ve been holding in.
“She’s pregnant.”
Jonah blinks, his expression blank for a moment. “Sara?”
I nod, once.
His brows shoot up in surprise. “Holy… okay. That’s… a big development.”
I don’t stop there. “There’s more. It’s triplets.”
Jonah drops his pen, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re having three babies.”
I manage a half-smile, though it feels heavy in my chest. “Apparently, my swimmers are overachievers.”
Jonah makes a sound somewhere between disbelief and the faintest trace of humor, rubbing a hand over his mouth as if trying to process a dozen different thoughts at once.
“You just spent two weeks convincing the board this wasn’t a relationship.
That Sara had nothing to do with the leak. That this was all tabloid garbage…”
“I know.”
Jonah leans forward, his tone becoming more serious. “Nick—”
“I know,” I cut him off, more firmly now. “But I’d lie again. I’d lie every goddamn day if it meant protecting her from this.”
There’s a long silence. Jonah studies me for a moment, absorbing everything I’ve just said. And then, finally, he speaks.
“You’re all in.”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m all in.”
Another beat. Jonah exhales slowly and mutters, “Well, shit. Guess I better find out who’s trying to ruin your life before the baby shower.”
I give him a grim nod. “Yeah. And Jonah?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s keep this between us. Just for now.”
He meets my gaze, his expression solemn. “Your secret’s safe. But you know this won’t stay buried forever.”
“I know.”
And I do. But I’m not focused on the potential fallout, this time. I’m not planning for the worst anymore.
I’m planning for them.