Chapter 25 Tessa
TESSA
The morning light hitting the glass walls of the conference room feels less like sunshine and more like an interrogation lamp.
I should be glowing. Instead, I’m dying. There’s a relentless pounding in my head, and my stomach is twisted into a cold knot of nausea that tightens every time I move.
“Excellent work, Tessa,” Ethan says from the head of the table.
His eyes lock onto mine, shedding the CEO glare for a soft, secret warmth that tells me exactly what he’s remembering—the way I screamed his name last night.
I try to smile back, but the skin on my face feels too tight.
“Are you okay?” Owen asks, spinning a pen between his fingers as he studies my face. “You look a little… green.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Probably just the sushi from last night.”
“Okay,” Ethan says, standing up. “Let’s break for coffee. Be back in ten.”
The moment the smell of dark roast and hazelnut creamer wafts over from the credenza, it hits me exactly like the sake did last night—a physical punch to the gut.
The bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic.
Don’t throw up, I beg myself. Don’t throw up in front of the executive team.
Muttering a quick excuse, I walk out, forcing myself to keep a brisk, focused stride so it looks like I’m taking an urgent phone call.
The second I hit the hallway, I sprint.
I burst into the empty women’s restroom, dive into the handicap stall, and lock the door just as my stomach violently revolts.
I drop to my knees and dry heave, but nothing comes up except acid and the phantom taste of the sake. Sitting back on my heels, my forehead is clammy and I’m violently shaking.
Food poisoning, I tell myself. It has to be the sushi. Maybe the tuna was off.
The restroom door opens, and heels click sharply against the tile.
“Tessa?”
It’s Sarah from HR. Of course it’s Sarah, the woman who notices absolutely everything.
“In here,” I croak. “Just… not feeling well.”
I flush the toilet, unlock the stall door, and stumble to the sink to rinse my mouth. The reflection staring back at me in the mirror is ghostly pale with watery eyes.
Sarah is washing her hands, watching me closely in the glass.
“Rough night?” she asks sympathetically. “I heard you guys celebrated the funding.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing a cold paper towel to the back of my neck. “Celebrated a little too hard.”
“Hangover?”
“Something like that. Or bad sushi.”
Sarah laughs, grabbing a fresh paper towel. “Careful,” she teases. “My sister thought she had bad sushi for three weeks. Turns out she was six weeks pregnant with twins. We call them Spicy and Tuna.”
She tosses the paper in the trash. “Feel better, hon. Drink some ginger ale.”
She walks out, and the door swings shut.
I stand completely still. The water is still running, dripping from my chin onto my silk blouse.
Pregnant.
The word echoes in the tiled room, bouncing off the mirrors.
Spicy and Tuna.
“No,” I whisper.
I turn off the faucet, my hand shaking so badly I fumble the heavy metal handle.
I walk back to my desk. The office is buzzing with ringing phones and laughing coworkers as normal life happens all around me.
I slump into my chair and unlock my computer, immediately pulling up the calendar to stare blankly at the grid for April and May.
My period is regular—it runs on an exact twenty-eight-day cycle. Harper used to make fun of me for being so rigidly organized about tracking it.
Looking at today’s date, I start counting the weeks. One. Two. Three… Six weeks. I’m two weeks late.
I didn’t miss it; I actively suppressed it. I pushed away the sake and skipped the raw fish last night, fully knowing my body was revolting but refusing to let the terrifying thought actually form.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to work the math backward.
I remember exactly what happened a month ago. The reckless afternoon. The panic attack. The very first time we broke the seal and didn’t use protection.
Why didn’t I take emergency contraception? Because I was on the birth control pill. Or, I was supposed to be. Between the insane stress of quitting my freelance jobs, Markus Vance’s threats, and moving my entire life to Mosaic during launch week, I completely forgot to take it for a few days.
By the time the dust finally settled, the window for Plan B was gone, and I foolishly assumed the risk was minimal.
Oh god.
“Tessa?”
I jump. Asher is standing beside my desk holding a tablet, with pure concern radiating off him. His blue eyes scan my face, immediately taking in the severe pallor and the sweat on my upper lip.
“Your respiration is shallow,” he says softly, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in my hands. “And your skin lacks color. Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, Ash,” I whisper, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Just… tired.”
“You aren’t fine,” he states, his voice low. “You’re deviating from the baseline, Tessa. You never leave meetings, and you’re actively sweating.”
He reaches out to touch my forehead, and I instantly flinch back.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Not here. Protocol.”
Asher’s hand drops. He looks genuinely hurt for a microsecond before the stoic mask slides right back into place.
“Understood,” he says stiffly. “Protocol. Go home, Tessa. Work from home. I’ll cover for you with Ethan.”
“I can’t go home,” I say. “I have… errands.”
“Errands?”
“I need to go to the drugstore. For… headache medicine.”
Asher studies me. He knows I’m lying, but he slowly nods.
“Go,” he says. “Text us when you’re safe.”
I watch him walk away. I watch the rigid set of his shoulders and the fiercely protective way he just checked on me.
I might be carrying his child.
Or Ethan’s. Or Owen’s.
And I just signed a legal contract stipulating that if anyone finds out, I cost them fifty million dollars. And so much more.
I feel like a massive criminal.
I’m wearing sunglasses inside a drugstore, standing in front of the family planning aisle and staring at the rows of pink and blue boxes like they’re improvised explosive devices waiting to go off.
First Response. Clearblue. E.P.T. Which one is best? Which one doesn’t lie?
I grab three different brands, ignoring the potential judgment from the cashier, and frantically scan the aisles. Is Sterling’s private investigator hiding behind the shampoo display? Is a reporter from TechCrunch lurking near the vitamins?
Paranoia makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up as I grab a bottle of water, a pack of gum, and a bag of pretzels—anything to bury the boxes in my basket before hurrying to the counter.
The cashier is a teenage boy with acne and a nametag that says Kyle. He scans the gum and water—beep, beep—before picking up the first pregnancy test.
He pauses, his eyes flicking from the box to my face.
I hold my breath, silently praying he doesn’t say anything or ask if I need a bag.
Beep.
He finishes scanning the rest, shoving them all into a plastic bag. “Thirty-two fifty,” he mumbles.
I shove my credit card into the reader, wait for the approval, grab the bag, and practically run out.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Ethan: Asher says you’re sick. Go home. I’ll bring soup later.
Owen: I knew the sushi was bad. I’m going to leave a 1-star review. Feel better, T.
I stare at the texts on my screen. They’re so incredibly sweet and caring, but they are completely oblivious to the live grenade I’m currently holding in a CVS bag.
I walk back to the office building. I can’t go home, because if I go home, I’ll be alone with my thoughts—or worse, Ethan might show up early. I need to know right now.
I take the elevator up to the fortieth floor, hiding the CVS bag deep inside my oversized tote.
Keeping my head down, I breeze past the reception desk and the bullpen until I reach the executive bathroom near Ethan’s office.
It’s a single-stall room with a marble sink, expensive hand soap, and a lock that actually works.
I lock the door and lean heavily against it, breathing hard.
Okay.
I rip open the first box, my hands shaking so badly I tear the paper instructions. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. I do it, setting the timer on my phone for three minutes.
I place the stick on the marble counter, right next to the other two, and start pacing the small room. Three steps forward. Three steps back. The agonizing wait stretches out, filling the tiny space with an oppressive, mounting dread.
One minute and thirty seconds left.
I splash cold water on my face and stare into the mirror. I look absolutely terrified.
If I am… Mr. Sterling’s voice violently echoes in my head. Morality Clause. Deviant lifestyles. Scandal. The funding would be pulled immediately.
A pregnant Brand Strategist who doesn’t know which of her three bosses is the father isn’t just a scandal—it’s a massive punchline. It’s a PR nightmare that ends with Mosaic permanently blacklisted and the Branson brothers laughed right out of Silicon Hills.
They would lose everything. The fifty million. The pristine reputation. The empire they built from nothing.
Because of me.
00:00.
The alarm beeps, sounding like a bomb in the silent room.
I go perfectly still, staring at the three sticks lined up neatly on the marble counter. I don’t want to look. If I don’t look, it isn’t real. If I don’t look, I can go back to five minutes ago and pretend it was just bad sushi.
I force myself to look.
Stick 1: Two solid pink lines.
Stick 2: A bold blue PREGNANT.
Stick 3: A digital YES +.
All the oxygen immediately vanishes from the room. I grip the edge of the sink as a fresh wave of nausea hits me, forcing me to slide down the wall until I hit the cold tile floor with a dull thud.
I pull my knees tightly to my chest.
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
And the father is one of the three men I am contractually forbidden from touching.
“Oh god,” I whisper.
A sob climbs up my throat, actively choking me. I press my hand tightly over my mouth to stifle the sound. I can’t cry. If I cry, my makeup will run, and if my makeup runs, they’ll know.
I see their faces. Ethan’s immense pride when he signed that contract. Asher’s excitement about the server expansion. Owen’s massive grin when he announced we had fifty million dollars.
I’m the mistake that costs them absolutely everything.
My phone buzzes again.
Ethan: Leaving a meeting. Coming to check on you. Are you at home?
Adrenaline floods my system.
I scramble up, grabbing the positive tests and wrapping them in layers and layers of toilet paper until they look like mummies. I bury them deep in the trash can underneath a stack of used paper towels.
I wash my hands, scrubbing them raw like I’m trying to wash off a crime. I look in the mirror. My eyes are red, and my lips are visibly trembling.
“Game face,” I whisper. “Pull it together, Tessa.”
But the woman staring back at me looks like she’s about to completely fracture.
I can’t go home if Ethan is heading there.
Me: Not home yet. Just walking around to get air. I’ll let you know when I’m back.
I’m sitting on the metal stairs of the fire escape on the west side of the building. The wind whipping my hair is hot and humid, but I feel freezing cold.
I need my mom.
I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over her name. I shouldn’t call her. I can’t tell her the truth. She’ll be disappointed. She’ll be utterly horrified, and she’ll tell me I was horribly reckless.
But I need her.
I dial.
“Tessa!” My mom’s voice answers on the second ring, incredibly warm and cheerful. “Honey, hi! We were just talking about you. Your dad saw the article online about the funding. Fifty million! We are so unbelievably proud!”
The pure pride in her voice makes my throat tighten so hard I can barely breathe.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice violently trembling. “It’s… it’s great news, Mom.”
“You sound tired, sweetie. Are they working you too hard?”
“Just… yeah. It’s been a really long week.”
“Well, you make sure those boys take care of you,” she says sternly. “I know they’re bigshot CEOs now, but I still remember when Owen got his head stuck in our banister. You tell them I said to let you sleep.”
I let out a wet, shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. “I will.”
“Is everything okay, Tess? You sound so… small.”
I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to physically hold my composure together. I want to tell her. I want to scream: Mom, I’m pregnant. Mom, I’m in love with three men. Mom, I think I just ruined my entire life.
But I can’t. Not over the phone. Not when they are so incredibly proud of me. Not when my dad is probably bragging to the neighbors right now about his successful daughter.
“I’m just stressed,” I lie. “The pressure… It's a lot right now. The new contract has some extremely strict rules.”
“Oh, baby,” she sighs. “You’ve always taken on the weight of the world. Just remember, no job is worth your health. If it ever becomes too much… you can always come home. Your room is exactly how you left it. We can make lasagna.”
Home.
The pure safety of it immediately calls to me. A world where Morality Clauses don’t exist, where I’m just Tessa—not the voice of Mosaic, and definitely not the woman actively destroying the Branson brotherhood.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper. “I… I might visit soon.”
“We’d absolutely love that. Love you, honey.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up.
I sit there on the metal steps for a long time, gripping the phone. I have a massive secret actively growing inside me—one with a heartbeat.
I glance at the glass door leading back into the office. Through the window, the bullpen is clearly visible. Asher walks past holding a tablet, pausing to look around the room, probably scanning the floor for me.
My heart aches. It physically hurts my chest.
I love them. God help me, I really love them. And that is exactly why I can’t tell them.
Not yet.
If I tell them, Ethan will tear up the contract. He’ll blindly choose me. He’ll lose the money, and he’ll lose the company.
I absolutely can’t let him do that.
I stand up, smoothing my skirt over my stomach—flat, for now. I have to hide this. I have to figure out a way to magically save the company before my body betrays us all.
Taking a deep, grounding breath, I pull open the heavy glass door and walk right back into the lion’s den.