Chapter 47 Now Look at You
A few weeks later, I woke to a strong wave of nausea.
I barely had time to register the warning before I scrambled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom.
I made it just in time, gripping the sides of the toilet as my stomach heaved violently.
The force of it left my eyes watering and my throat burning.
“Ashley?”
Knox’s voice was thick with sleep, but he was beside me in seconds. His hand settled on my back, steady and warm.
“Ugh.” Mortified, I tried to wave him away weakly, but he ignored it completely. He held my hair back and rubbed slow circles between my shoulder blades while I fought through another round of retching.
The smell alone was enough to make me want to disappear.
Finally, the worst of it passed. My body sagged, trembling with exhaustion, but the nausea lingered, simmering beneath the surface like it wasn’t finished with me yet.
This had become my routine.
Every morning for the past few weeks.
Some days it was just nausea. Other days, like today, it was this.
“Wait here,” Knox said.
I almost laughed weakly. Where did he think I was going to go?
Another wave hit and I heaved again. When it passed, Knox handed me a fresh tissue and steadied me as I wiped my mouth.
“Here.” He pressed my water bottle into my hand. “Small sips.”
Easy for him to say. His throat wasn’t raw from acid.
Still, I obeyed, taking slow, careful sips.
When I finally managed to stand, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and winced. Pale skin, dark circles, hair a mess. I definitely didn’t look like one of those glowing pregnant women from magazine articles.
Knox stepped up behind me, his gaze meeting mine in the reflection, and like he’d read my thoughts, his expression softened.
“You’re carrying my child,” he said quietly. “You’ve never been more beautiful.”
My chest tightened as his hands slid gently over my stomach.
“Show me my baby, Ash.”
A faint smile touched my lips. I turned toward him and lifted the hem of my camisole, exposing the soft curve. It was small, but unmistakable now. I’d only started showing last week, and somehow that had been enough for Knox. Every morning since, he wanted to see it.
He dropped to one knee in front of me, his touch careful, almost reverent, before pressing a soft kiss to the swell of my stomach.
“Good morning, baby,” he murmured.
Despite everything, the nausea, the exhaustion, the fear, warmth bloomed in my chest. Having Knox beside me through this changed everything. He hovered constantly, making sure I drank enough water, keeping crackers on my nightstand, pulling blankets over me when I fell asleep unexpectedly.
It was sweet and exactly what I needed.
He rose slowly, his hands sliding up my sides until they rested on my waist. His forehead touched mine, his breath warm against my lips.
“Ash,” he said quietly, “I need you to know something.”
I blinked up at him. “What?”
His thumb traced softly along my cheek, his touch almost reverent. “I love you.”
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t breathe.
I had promised myself I would never say those words again. Not after my last life. Not after everything I’d lost.
But somewhere along the way, in quiet mornings like this, in the doctor’s office, in the way he held me when I was sick, the feeling had slipped past all my defenses.
I swallowed hard. “Knox…”
His eyes searched mine, open in a way he rarely allowed. “You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know.”
But I did want to say it.
I wanted him to hear it.
“I love you too,” I whispered.
His breath caught. His hands tightened at my waist, pulling me closer, and the way he looked at me made something deep in my chest ache.
Like I’d just handed him the entire world.
Then he cleared his throat, brushing my hair back like he needed a second to steady himself. “Okay. Now let’s get you horizontal before you pass out on me.”
I snorted, which made him smile, which made me smile, and somehow the morning didn’t feel quite as awful anymore.
By noon most days, the nausea faded as suddenly as it came.
My body would settle, and I felt almost like myself again.
On better days, we went into the office together.
On the harder ones, I stayed home, working from bed or the couch while Knox checked on me constantly, like I might disappear if he looked away for too long.
A week ago, he had insisted on taking me to the doctor, convinced something had to be wrong, that no one should feel that sick every morning. The doctor reassured us everything was progressing normally, that the nausea could even be a sign of a strong, healthy pregnancy.
That became my quiet mantra on the rough mornings. My baby is safe. My baby is growing.
Knox, of course, didn’t stop there. He had a sofa brought into his office so I could lie down whenever I needed to, and true to his word, my desk had been moved in permanently.
His office was more than big enough for both of us, and he liked having me there.
Close. Where he could see me. Where he could protect us.
When I reached twelve weeks, I finally allowed myself to breathe a little easier. In my last life, I had lost the baby, and that fear had never fully left me.
But this time was different.
This time, everything was unfolding exactly as it should.
When I reached the second trimester, I finally let myself share the news.
I called my maternal family in France, and their reaction was immediate.
Joy, warmth, voices overlapping as they asked questions all at once.
My uncles promised to visit before the baby was born.
My grandparents didn’t travel anymore, but we set up weekly video calls, and they messaged me constantly, checking in about everything.
How I felt. What the doctor said. Whether I was eating enough.
They sent old family recipes, insisting certain soups were essential for strong babies, and told me stories about my mother when she was pregnant with me. What she craved. How she would stop whatever she was doing just to feel me move. How she talked to her belly like I was already there.
Their excitement wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
For the first time in a long while, I felt surrounded. Supported. Loved.
And for a while, life felt almost peaceful. Enough that I could pretend everything else wasn’t still quietly unraveling in the background.
It didn’t take long for that to change. Amy sent me The Richards Group bankruptcy filing, and just like that, it was over.
My father’s company had officially collapsed.
It barely made a ripple online compared to everything else, but I knew what it meant.
The last illusion of stability was gone.
Whatever money, power, or leverage he’d been clinging to had finally slipped away.
I stared at the text for a long moment, waiting for some kind of emotional reaction.
There wasn’t one.
No satisfaction. No grief. Just a distant, quiet detachment.
I set the phone aside and moved on with my day.
That afternoon, my phone rang from an unknown number, and when I answered, a flat, automated voice came through the line.
“This is a call from the Cook County Department of Corrections. An inmate is requesting to speak with you. To accept this call, press 1. To decline, press 2.”
I wondered if it was Marissa or Apple. Curiosity won out.
I pressed 1.
There was a click, a faint buzz, and then—
“Ashley.”
Apple’s voice. Thin, strained, but unmistakably hers.
I shifted my weight against the counter, my fingers curling around the edge. “What do you want?”
“I need to see you,” she said.
I almost laughed. “Now why would I do that?”
“Because you owe me,” she snapped, the sharpness breaking through before she caught herself. When she spoke again, her voice softened, almost careful. “Just come. I need to talk to you.”
She needed something from me. And she hated needing anything from me.
That alone made the idea tempting.
And the truth was, I wanted to see her too. Not out of compassion. Not out of anything resembling loyalty. But because she couldn’t touch me anymore. Couldn’t hurt me. Couldn’t twist anything into something it wasn’t.
She was locked in a cell now. Stripped of her audience. Stripped of her power.
I wanted her to see exactly how badly she’d lost.
“Fine,” I said at last. “I’ll come.”
The line went dead.
Two days later, I stepped through the security checkpoint at Cook County Jail.
I had taken my time getting ready that morning, more than usual, carefully erasing every sign of how I’d felt earlier. The nausea, the exhaustion, the rough start to the day.
Soft foundation evened out the pale tone of my skin, concealer brightened the shadows under my eyes, a touch of blush brought warmth back to my cheeks. Mascara, a subtle gloss. My hair fell smooth down my back, polished and silky.
I chose a fitted cream dress that skimmed over the small curve of my stomach without clinging.
If I was going to see her, I was going to look good.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I was led through a narrow hallway, the air sharp with disinfectant and metal. A guard stopped at one of the visitation booths and gestured me inside.
Apple was already there, waiting behind the glass.
For a second, I just looked at her.
She looked… rough.
Her hair was short now, barely brushing her jawline, thin and uneven. I’d learned from Amy that the prison removed all hair extensions on intake. Safety protocol. So this was her real hair
Her skin looked washed out under the harsh lighting, dark circles shadowing her eyes, a bruise blooming along her cheekbone.
She looked nothing like the polished influencer she used to be. She looked like someone who hadn’t adjusted to an orange uniform.
I took the seat across from her and picked up the phone.
Apple mirrored the motion more slowly, her hands trembling just a little.
“You came,” she said.
“Unfortunately,” I replied.
Her jaw tightened. “I need your help.”
“It must hurt, having to say that.”
She ignored it, leaning closer to the glass. “You need to talk to the DA. Tell them you exaggerated. That you misunderstood. Tell them you want the credit card charges dropped.”
I blinked at her, taken aback for a second. “You want me to lie to law enforcement for you.”
“It’s not lying,” she snapped. “It’s fixing what you broke.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of me. I shifted back slightly in my seat, the phone still pressed to my ear. “Apple, this is witness intimidation. And you’re doing it on a recorded line.”
Her eyes darted for a split second. “I’m not intimidating you,” she snapped. “You’re the one exaggerating everything. I’m just asking you to correct it.”
“You might want to run that strategy by your lawyer before you keep talking. You’re not helping yourself right now.””
Her nostrils flared, her grip tightening around the receiver. “Stop acting like you’re better than me.”
“I don’t have to act.”
Her eyes narrowed, something sharp and unstable flashing behind them. “You think you’ve won. You think you’re safe now. But you’re not.”
I let my free hand drift down, smoothing it slowly over the small curve of my stomach. “Funny,” I said lightly. “I feel like I’m doing pretty well.”
Apple’s gaze dropped instantly. Her expression twisted, something ugly breaking through.
“You’re pregnant,” she hissed.
“Very observant.”
“With his baby.”
“Of course. I made sure it was his. Not… secondhand.”
Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. “You think that means something? You think you’ve won because you got knocked up? You don’t even know—”
I didn’t let her finish.
I lifted my left hand between us, turning it just enough for the light to catch the diamond. It flashed against the glass, bright and deliberate.
“Isn’t it pretty?” I asked.
Color rushed into her face, blotchy and uneven, her fingers tightening around the receiver until her knuckles went white. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve any of this.”
I gave a small shrug. “And yet here we are.”
Her breathing picked up, shallow and uneven, her eyes darting over my face like she was searching for something to latch onto. A crack. A weakness. Anything.
I didn’t give her one.
Instead, I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and held it up to the glass between us. “Have you seen these?”
Her expression flickered.
I swiped slowly, deliberately. Headlines. Mugshots. Clips of commentators dissecting her downfall. Her name everywhere, trending for all the wrong reasons. Words flashing across the screen. Manipulative. Dangerous. Unhinged.
“Everyone knows,” I said quietly. “Everyone sees you now.”
“Stop,” she whispered.
“You’re not adored,” I continued, my voice calm. “You’re just… pathetic.”
“Stop.”
I tilted my head, studying her through the glass. “Look at the bright side. You’ve never been this famous in your life. Or should I say infamous.”
Her jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly.
“Before, you were just an influencer. Niche famous. But now? You’re everywhere. Headlines. News cycles. Talk shows. Not the kind of attention you wanted, but it still counts.”
Her grip slipped on the phone, then tightened again.
“You tried to ruin my life, Apple,” I said. “But you ruined your own.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, wild and furious. “You think you’ve won.”
“I know I have.”
“You think I’ll stay here forever.”
“You will.”
She surged forward, slamming her palm against the glass. The impact echoed through the booth. “You don’t get to say that!”
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Your whole life’s been a joke,” I mocked. “Better luck in the next one… sis.”
For a second, she just stared at me.
Then something in her snapped.
She shot to her feet, the chair scraping harshly behind her, shouting as she slammed her hands against the glass again and again. The words blurred together, muffled through the barrier, but the rage was unmistakable.
The door behind her burst open. Two correctional officers rushed in, grabbing her arms, pulling them behind her back. She fought them, twisting, screaming, her voice breaking as they forced her toward the exit.
Her eyes locked onto mine, wide and frantic, filled with hatred and something that looked dangerously close to fear.
I stayed where I was, watching until she disappeared from view.
The room fell quiet again.
And for the first time in my life, I felt completely, unmistakably free.