Chapter 23
BEA
SIX WEEKS LATER
The cold pressed against the windows in thin, pale sheets of ice.
My tea had gone untouched long enough to lose its steam, a faint film settling across the surface.
My laptop cast a low glow over the counter, inbox open, three threads flagged, two already answered.
My phone buzzed once—short, controlled—and I reached for it without looking, thumb unlocking the screen in the same motion I’d used a thousand times before.
January had snapped everything back into place. Games stacked tighter. Media cycles faster. No more holiday buffer—just pressure, clean and constant. Exactly the way I worked best.
I skimmed the latest overnight coverage, eyes moving quickly, tracking tone before content.
“Müller continues to toe the line—”
My fingers moved without hesitation, tightening the language, redirecting the narrative before it had a chance to settle into something harder to undo. Controlled aggression. Veteran presence. Protective instinct. Words that held without exposing.
The radiator hissed faintly along the wall, pushing heat that never quite reached the floor. The tile under my bare feet stayed cold anyway, grounding, familiar. Necessary.
I reached for the mug, took a sip—my stomach turned—quick, low, not enough to send me running. I set the mug down more carefully than I needed to, fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic before releasing it.
I was fine.
Empty stomach. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Pick one.
My gaze dropped back to the screen. The email. The sentence I’d been editing. I blinked once, slow, forcing focus back into place, and re-read the line from the top.
I exhaled through my nose and pushed forward, finishing the edit, hitting send, watching it disappear into the system like everything else I handled before it had a chance to become a problem.
I shoved away from the counter, crossing the kitchen in a few quick steps, rinsing the mug out, the cold water run over my fingers. The chill bit into my skin, sharp enough to anchor me back into my body, back into something steady.
Stress.
That’s all this was.
It had to be stress.
December had been a grind—travel, late nights, constant pressure, no margin for anything that didn’t directly contribute to keeping things under control. My body was catching up. That was it.
I dried my hands, rolling my shoulders once, resetting posture, resetting focus.
The smell hit next. Subtle. Familiar. Nothing strong enough to matter. And still—my stomach dipped again, violently, a quick, involuntary pull that had me bracing a hand against the edge of the counter before I collapsed in on myself.
I stayed frozen in place, waiting for it to pass.
It did.
Slowly.
My gaze shifted—Food. Sleep. Schedule. Travel. Hydration. None of it lined up clean enough to explain it.
My jaw tightened slightly as I moved back toward the laptop.
If something didn’t make sense—I found where it did.
My hand hovered over the trackpad for half a beat before I clicked, pulling up my calendar, the month opening clean and precise in front of me.
January.
Color-coded.
My eyes dropped exactly where they were supposed to.
Last month.
Then back.
Again.
My fingers pressed lightly into my temples. And let the conclusion land exactly where it needed to.
I was late.
Not unusual. Not impossible. Not… unprecedented.
Just—unlikely.
My fingers slid off my temple, dropping back to the counter as I straightened slowly.
This can’t be happening. I allowed the thought to spark and burn out as I snapped into action. There was nothing to worry about until I knew… and I had to know. Immediately.
I crossed the apartment, grabbing my bag off the chair by the door, fingers already moving—phone, keys, wallet—automatic, efficient. No hesitation. No pause to sit in it.
Northbend in January didn’t ask if you were ready.
It assumed you were.
The street was already in motion when I stepped outside—cars pushing slow over packed snow, exhaust curling up in pale ribbons, the sky stretched thin and gray overhead like it hadn’t fully decided to commit to daylight.
A Frosthawks banner snapped lightly against a lamppost across the street, the logo sharp against the muted landscape, a reminder that the season didn’t slow down just because everything else did.
The pharmacy sat two blocks down, bright and overly warm when I stepped inside, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. The shift from cold to heat rushed at me fast and for a second I had to stop
I moved through the aisles with ease. Top shelf. Right side. Small box. Neutral packaging. Forced the panic to live in a later portion of my mind.
There’s nothing to worry about until you know.
The cashier barely looked at me, scanning it through with the same disinterest as everything else passing over the counter. Good. I didn’t need this to be a moment. I didn’t need it to be anything.
Transaction complete.
Handled.
The apartment was quiet when I stepped back inside.
The box sat in my hand, fingers pressing briefly against the cardboard.
Instructions.
Simple.
Straightforward.
I read them anyway.
Twice.
Once I finished, set the pee stick on the edge of the counter and walked away.
The apartment stretched open and still, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound cutting through it as I crossed back into the kitchen, reaching automatically for my laptop, flipping it open to the same screen I’d left minutes before.
My fingers found the keyboard, pulling me back into motion, into something that made sense.
A flagged thread sat at the top—media inquiry, tone shifting sharper overnight—and I opened it without thinking, scanning the language, already restructuring responses in my head before I reached the end of the first paragraph.
He doesn’t escalate. He responds. He protects. He doesn’t perform.
I rewrote the line, tightened it, stripped out anything that could be twisted into something it wasn’t.
The knock on the door broke hard enough to cut straight through my thoughts.
My head lifted, fingers freezing mid-keystroke as the sound echoed once more—impatient now, like whoever was on the other side didn’t believe in waiting.
I pushed back from the counter, already moving.
When I opened the door—my father stood on the other side.
For a second, my brain didn’t catch up.
The sight didn’t make sense—on my doorstep, framed by gray sky and frozen concrete, the cold curling in around him like it had been waiting for permission to follow him inside.
“Beatriz.” No hesitation. No pause to read me first, no distance held for formality—his arms came around me in one solid motion, pulling me in like he had every right to be there, like the months between us didn’t exist the second he closed the space.
I folded into him automatically. The tension loosened in one clean drop, slipping out of my shoulders as I breathed him in—citrus and spice, something grounded underneath it that had never changed, no matter where in the world he’d come from or was going next.
“Hi,” I breathed against his coat.
His hand came up to the back of my head, fingers threading briefly into my hair before he leaned back just enough to look at me. “You’ve lost weight,” he murmured, thumb brushing once along my cheekbone like he was confirming it through touch instead of sight.
“I haven’t,” I snickered back.
His mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like one. “You say that,” he replied, the words familiar, worn smooth from years of repetition.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I asked, already turning, already shifting into motion as I moved past him, pushing the door closed fully.
“I was in New York,” he explained, unbuttoning his coat with practiced efficiency. “Meetings ran shorter than expected.”
“And you didn’t think to call?”
His gaze flicked to me, something softer threading through it now. “Would you have told me not to come?”
I exhaled, shaking my head slightly as I took his coat when he handed it to me, hanging it on the back of the chair like I’d done a hundred times before.
“I missed you,” he added.
“I—” I started, stepping back, already turning—and froze.
The bathroom light. A thin strip of brightness cut across the floor, sharp against the muted tones of the apartment, leading straight to the door I hadn’t closed.
Leading straight to—my pulse kicked once, hard enough to feel.
My father moved further inside, setting his gloves down on the counter, attention already drifting—taking in the space, the details, the life I’d built here in clean, efficient lines.
He would see it.
He cannot see that!
I shifted immediately. “Give me one second,” I stuttered, already moving before he could respond.
I crossed the apartment in three quick steps, each one measured, controlled, not rushed—but faster than I would normally move. The tile bit into my feet as I pushed the bathroom door open just enough to slip inside, blocking the line of sight behind me with my body.
The test sat exactly where I’d left it. Small. White. Unassuming.
World-altering.
I didn’t look at it.
Didn’t check.
Couldn’t.
My hand moved anyway, fingers closing around it in one clean motion, wrapping it instantly in toilet paper—once, twice—until it was nothing more than a shape in my palm, something unidentifiable, contained.
The drawer slid open with a soft, familiar sound.
I placed it inside without hesitation, pushing it toward the back beneath a stack of neatly folded towels, adjusting them once—twice—until everything sat exactly the way it had before.
The drawer closed.
I washed my hands, letting the cold water run over my fingers longer than necessary, grounding myself in the sensation, resetting the rhythm of my breathing before shutting it off.