Chapter 3
Lucas
The universe doesn’t fucking care about your calendar. It was a Wednesday when Bella called me from the bathroom, her voice thin as a wire, and said only, “I need you.” I was in a meeting with the board—eight men and women who measured the value of every minute. I left before my chair hit the wall.
The drive to the hospital was an assault: every red light, every bumper-sticker philosopher telling me to relax, let go, breathe. I texted Christian: ER. Cover for me. He responded with a single period, which meant he understood.
Bella was in triage, legs curled to her chest, gown twisted around her like a tourniquet. The nurse eyed me as if I was the next of kin at a crime Chapter. I sat, hand on her back, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat stuttering in my ears.
“What happened?” I asked.
She shook her head, shivering. “Blood. A lot of it.”
I made my voice calm. “Did you call the doctor?”
She nodded, jaw clenched. “They said to come in. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” I forced my hand to steady. “We’re okay. We’re here.”
The doctor arrived, the same one who’d been managing Bella’s case.
She had the controlled compassion of someone who’d spent a decade managing expectations.
After a lot of cold hands and murmured instructions, she finally said, “The baby’s heart is strong.
You may be looking at a partial abruption, but there’s no sign of miscarriage right now. ”
Bella closed her eyes. I let out the breath I’d been holding for an hour.
“We’ll have to restrict your activity,” the doctor said. “No work, no lifting, as much rest as you can manage. You understand?”
Bella nodded. I wanted to ask what happened to women who did everything right and still lost everything, but I already knew the answer.
At home, she moved through the house like a ghost. I did all the things men do when they have no control: adjusted the thermostat, changed the sheets, brought her water every fifteen minutes.
My laptop never left the kitchen table. I set alarms so I wouldn’t miss the next round of medication, or her next snack, or the exact time for her next nap. The rest of the world felt optional.
On the third day, Bella found me on a conference call, my voice pitched lower than normal to avoid waking her. I didn’t see her until she slid a mug of coffee across the table. She looked hollowed out, but her lips curled up at the edges.
“You’re getting nothing done,” she said.
I started to argue, but she stopped me. “You’re here. But you’re not here.”
I glanced at the open laptop, the piles of notes, the phone that never stopped buzzing. “I don’t want you alone,” I said.
She brushed my hand. “I’m not. I promise. Go to the office tomorrow. Let the professionals handle it for a few hours.”
I wanted to refuse, but I could see how much it cost her to say it.
“Deal,” I said, and she smiled for real this time.
Ashford Global was chaos incarnate when I returned. Victoria had managed the crisis with such elegance that half the staff didn’t realize there’d been a problem. She met me in the hallway, binder in hand, hair pulled tight.
“You’re back,” she said. Not a question.
“Only for a few hours.”
She nodded. “I left the deck on your desk. Board wants to see you at two. I’ll brief you in ten.”
I almost asked how she did it, but the answer was obvious: she worked harder than anyone and never took anything personally.
When we sat down for the briefing, she slid into the chair beside mine, not across, and started outlining everything I’d missed.
Her voice was crisp, but there was no edge to it. Just facts, a rhythm I could follow.
When it was over, I said, “Thanks. I owe you.”
She tilted her head. “You’re welcome. How’s your wife?”
The question caught me off guard. “Better,” I said. “Still on bed rest.”
Victoria hesitated, as if calculating whether to add a personal detail. “I was on bed rest once,” she said. “Didn’t end well.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I offered the only currency I had: “If you ever want to talk about it…”
She smiled, almost imperceptible. “I’m fine. But thank you.”
We worked late, finishing a proposal for the Europe team. When it was done, I asked if she wanted to grab lunch. She didn’t hesitate.
The café was empty. We sat by the window, her back to the street, mine to the rest of the world.
The conversation started with numbers, then drifted to old jobs, old cities, the places she’d lived before Ashford.
Finally, she said, “My husband and I split because he always put work first. It’s not an original story. ”
I considered the scar beneath her words. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “I’m not. It taught me what I won’t tolerate. I admire what you’re doing—protecting your wife, your family. That’s rare.”
I didn’t tell her I didn’t feel rare, just raw and out of my depth.
“Marriage only works if you both defend it,” I said, almost reflexively.
She looked at me for a long moment. “I hope Bella knows how lucky she is.”
I nearly laughed. “She doesn’t need luck. She has me.”
Victoria nodded, understanding the subtext. “Good.”
Back at the office, she disappeared into a meeting, and I watched her go, wondering if people always misread ambition as a lack of heart.
I checked my phone. Bella had texted: Miss you. Come home?
On the way out, I stopped in the parking lot, stared up at the sky, and let myself imagine a future where we all made it through, intact.
When I got home, Bella was asleep on the couch, an old episode of the Parks show playing in the background. I sat beside her, careful not to wake her, and for the first time in weeks, I believed we might actually make it.