Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Sophie
Five days after the Blackwell investigation breaks, every screen in the newsroom still carries some version of the same story.
The headlines change by the hour, but the language keeps getting sharper.
Antitrust. Regulatory exposure. Market dominance.
Board pressure. Investor flight. Every network has found an expert willing to explain what Blackwell Technologies may have done, what it could cost, and who might ultimately be blamed.
I sit at my desk with the draft of my feature open on my monitor and my hands resting uselessly beside the keyboard.
I haven't added a word since Italy.
Grace appears in my doorway just before 10:00 with a folder tucked beneath her arm.
“Please tell me you're almost done,” she says.
I look at the screen. “I'm not.”
Her expression tightens.
“Sophie, we've had this conversation.”
“I know.”
“Then what exactly are we waiting for?”
I swivel my chair toward her.
“For this to stop being a feeding frenzy, maybe.”
Grace steps into my office and closes the door behind her.
“The story has been leading the business cycle for five days,” she says.
“It's not going to disappear because you feel uncomfortable.”
“This isn't about being uncomfortable.”
“What is it about, then?”
I glance toward the newsroom beyond the glass wall. One of the televisions is running footage of Julian entering Blackwell headquarters beneath a wall of cameras.
I look away.
“The assignment changed,” I tell her.
“I was writing a profile about the family and the company. Their history. Their structure. How they operate behind the public image. If we publish it now, none of that is going to be read in the context it was gathered.”
Grace folds her arms.
“That is exactly why we need it now.”
“No, Grace. That's why we shouldn't.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“You want me to sit on exclusive reporting about one of the biggest companies in the country while every other publication is scrambling for access?”
“I want us not to turn a long-form profile into ammunition for a scandal that didn't exist when I conducted the interviews.”
Grace stares at me. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then she sets the folder on the edge of my desk.
“The clock is ticking,” she says.
“Legal expects Blackwell to start sending cease-and-desist letters, access restrictions, maybe injunction requests depending on what they're trying to contain. Once that happens, everything becomes harder.”
“That doesn't make publishing faster the right thing to do.”
“It makes publishing before we're locked out the smart thing to do.”
My stomach rolls.
I press my palm against it and breathe slowly through my nose.
Grace notices.
“You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine.”
“I think I picked something up traveling.”
That is the explanation I have been giving myself for almost a week.
A stomach bug.
Jet lag.
Stress.
Anything that explains why I have spent the last several mornings nauseated, why food suddenly smells wrong, and why I have already made three trips to the bathroom since arriving at the office.
Grace studies me another second before returning to the subject.
“I need the rest of your notes.”
“No.”
The word comes out more firmly than I intend.
Her face changes.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
“Sophie, those notes were gathered on assignment.”
“I know who owns the assignment.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because context matters.”
Grace exhales sharply.
“You're a journalist.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I stare at her.
She continues before I can respond.
“Because right now you're acting like someone's personal advocate instead of the person I sent to report the story.”
Heat moves up my neck.
“That's not what I'm doing.”
“Then tell me what the issue is.”
I close the laptop halfway.
“The issue is that the people I interviewed gave me access for one kind of story. Publishing those conversations now, while they're under active investigation, turns them into something else.”
Grace's gaze sharpens.
“Julian Blackwell knew he was talking to a journalist.”
“Yes.”
“He knew you were taking notes.”
“Yes.”
“He knew there would be an article.”
“Yes.”
“Then I don't understand why you're suddenly protecting him from one.”
The question lands too close to everything I cannot explain. I haven't heard from Julian since Lake Como.
No call.
No message.
Nothing.
I know enough from the news to understand why. Every image of Blackwell headquarters shows cameras pressed against the doors. Every report mentions lawyers, regulators, emergency board meetings, and executives working around the clock.
He is dealing with a catastrophe. I refuse to become another person demanding something from him in the middle of it.
Grace leans against my desk.
“Is this personal?”
I look at her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No.”
The answer comes too quickly.
Grace notices, but she doesn't press the point directly.
Instead, she says, “Then finish the article.”
My stomach turns hard enough that I stand abruptly.
“Give me a second.”
I make it to the bathroom before I vomit.
By the time I return to my office several minutes later, my face is washed, my mouth tastes like peppermint from the gum I found in my purse, and Grace is still waiting.
She looks less irritated now.
“You really are sick.”
“I told you.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since I got back.”
“You should see someone.”
“I will.”
Grace looks toward my computer.
“What are you doing about the draft?”
I sit carefully.
“I need a few days.”
“Sophie—”
“I mean it. I'm sick, I'm exhausted, and I'm not going to produce anything useful sitting here running back and forth to the bathroom.”
Her jaw tightens again.
“I can work from home,” I continue.
“I'll review what I have and figure out where the story stands.”
“I need your notes.”
“I'll send you what I've already cleaned up.”
“All of them.”
I look directly at her. “What I've already cleaned up.”
The distinction hangs between us.
Grace straightens.
“You're putting me in a very difficult position.”
“I understand.”
“I don't think you do.”
I close my laptop completely.
“I'm going home.”
Grace picks up the folder from my desk.
“I want an update tomorrow.”
“You'll get one.”
She leaves without saying goodbye.
I remain in my chair for another minute, staring at the closed door. Then I look toward the television beyond the glass.
Julian's face fills the screen again, surrounded by reporters as he disappears through the entrance of Blackwell headquarters.
The chyron beneath him reads:
BLACKWELL ANTITRUST CRISIS DEEPENS
I turn away.
Whatever my article was supposed to be, it isn't that.
I pack my laptop into my bag, grab my coat, and head home before my stomach decides for me again.
***
Two days later, I am sitting on the paper-covered examination table in my doctor’s office with a bottle of water in one hand and the stale taste of nausea still clinging to the back of my throat.
I came here expecting something simple.
A prescription for the nausea. Maybe antibiotics if I picked up something while traveling. Anything that explains why my stomach has been turning itself inside out for more than a week and why I can barely make it through a morning without feeling like I need to lie down.
The nurse took blood, handed me a cup for a urine sample, checked my temperature, and disappeared nearly thirty minutes ago.
When the door finally opens, my doctor steps inside holding a tablet. Her expression is calm. That makes me nervous immediately.
“Well?” I ask.
“Please tell me you found whatever tropical disease I managed to bring back from Italy.”
She gives me a small smile as she sits on the stool across from me.
“You don’t have a stomach flu, Sophie.”
“Okay.”
I wait.
She glances at the results on her screen before looking back at me.
“You’re pregnant.”
The water bottle slips out of my hand. It hits the floor, rolls beneath the chair, and stops against the wall. I stare at her. For several seconds, I cannot make my mouth work.
“No.”
My doctor’s expression softens.
“The urine test was positive, and we confirmed it with your bloodwork.”
“No.” I shake my head.
“That can’t be right.”
“Sophie—”
“I’m on the pill.”
My voice cracks on the last word.
She looks down at my chart.
“You are, but I’m seeing here that you switched prescriptions a little over a month ago.”
“Yes, because the other one was giving me headaches.”
“Do you remember whether there was any gap between the old pack and the new one?”
I press my fingers against my forehead, trying to think.
“I don’t know. Maybe a few days. The pharmacy had an issue with the prescription.”
“And did you miss any pills when you started the new pack?”
“I might have.” My throat tightens.
“I was traveling constantly. Boston. New York. Then Italy.”
She nods gently.
“A lapse during a transition can reduce protection, especially if pills were missed or started late.”
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them.
My doctor leans forward slightly.
“Was this pregnancy planned?”
I laugh once, but there is no humor in it.
“No.”
The word comes out broken.
I wipe beneath one eye with the side of my hand.
“How far along am I?”
“Based on your last cycle and the bloodwork, approximately six weeks.”
Six weeks.
My entire body goes cold.
I stop hearing whatever she says next.
Six weeks takes me backward immediately.
Not Italy.
Not Lake Como.
Boston.
The hotel room.
Julian.
I grip the edge of the examination table.
“Six weeks?”
“Approximately,” she confirms.
“We’ll schedule an ultrasound to date the pregnancy more precisely.”
I nod because I understand the words individually, even though none of them seem to belong to my life.
My doctor speaks gently about next steps, follow-up care, and giving myself time before making any decisions. I hear pieces of it, but my mind keeps returning to the same fact.
I am pregnant.
By the time she leaves the room to give me a few minutes alone, my hands are shaking. I reach for my phone. His name is still there, and for one irrational second, every instinct in me says to call him.
Tell him now.
Hear his voice.