10. Strategic Distance
Chapter ten
Strategic Distance
The front door locked an hour ago after the documentary crew packed away their cables and equipment cases. Marcus and Sebastian took the chaotic energy of the production with them, abandoning me to the suffocating quiet of the house.
Warren sat beside me on the living room sofa, a sleek silver laptop resting flat across his thighs.
The warm glow of the table lamps fought back the evening shadows, but the stark white glare of the screen dominated the space between us.
He scrolled through the finalized batch of teaser art for the maternity line.
His thumb dragged across the trackpad in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
“Tilt the screen a bit,” I said. “The glare is hurting my eyes.”
“Sorry about that, Junie,” he said, angling the monitor closer to his chest.
I pressed my thighs firmly into the synthetic sofa cushions.
Sitting this close to him took every ounce of self-control I had left.
The spicy, overpowering scent of his cologne radiated off his collar.
I held myself rigid, enduring his proximity.
He shifted his weight, closing the gap until his knee rested a fraction of an inch from my leg.
He clicked open a high-resolution image of a pale green baby jumper. The cursor hovered over the stylized text running along the bottom margin of the digital canvas. He leaned back, studying the screen with narrowed eyes.
“Look at the font on this mock-up,” Warren said. He tapped a finger against the glass, pointing at the pastel lettering. “It really frames the baby clothes well. Chloe’s team did a solid job with the kerning. It feels modern, but approachable.”
He spoke with the smooth, practiced confidence he always used in the boardroom.
Chloe’s design assistants did the grueling labor, sorting through fabric swatches and panicking over supply chains, yet he sat here basking in the credit.
If I had not stood in the hallway and listened to him price out my coffin, I would buy the illusion.
He was an exceptional actor. He knew how to soften his tone to mimic adoration, how to present himself as the indispensable partner.
“It highlights the organic aesthetic we want,” I said. I rested my hands on my lap, ensuring my fingers remained flat and relaxed against the fabric of my slacks.
“Exactly,” Warren agreed. He swiped to the next image, this one featuring a pregnant silhouette wrapped in silk. “The demographic responds to authenticity. We sell them the dream of a perfect family.”
The laptop’s internal fan whirred to life.
The low vibration transferred through the sofa cushions, buzzing against my hip.
The baby delivered a sudden kick. I pressed my palm over the impact, focusing solely on the child I needed to protect.
I shifted my weight, putting another inch of space between our bodies without making the movement obvious.
“I think we push the launch date up to align with your due date,” Warren said. He turned his head, locking his eyes on mine. “The narrative of the pregnant CEO wearing her own designs is going to print money.”
Print money. His raw greed slipped right past his perfect charm.
He cared about the optics, the marketing narrative, and the resulting bank transfer.
He wanted the company accounts overflowing by the time he slipped the crushed pills into my evening tea.
I met his gaze, staring into the dark irises of the man who stood at the altar and promised to be my safest place.
“The board will definitely love the optics of it,” I said. “You’ve done a great job coordinating with the marketing team today.”
He preened under the praise. A genuine smile broke across his face, instantly restoring his boyish charm.
It was a terrifying thing to witness. He sat right next to me, utterly blind to the fact that I knew exactly what he was.
He viewed me as a docile, ignorant mark, perfectly positioned for him to take control.
“I’m just making sure your vision comes to life, Junie,” Warren said. He lowered his voice, slipping back into the soft, caring tone he used for the cameras. “You deserve nothing less. But of course, we’ll only do whatever you’re comfortable with.”
The sheer arrogance of his declaration settled like ash on my tongue. I kept my smile fixed in place, waiting for him to finish.
Warren shut the laptop with a hollow plastic clack, killing the glow of the screen.
He leaned forward, extending his arms to place the device on the center of the wooden coffee table.
Without the digital light, the living room settled back into the dim, amber glow of the table lamps.
The sudden silence of the cooling fan emphasized just how isolated the ground floor really was.
He shifted across the sofa cushions. The fabric rustled beneath him as he slid closer. He draped his arm over my shoulders, pulling me flush against him. The solid mass of his chest pressed against me, trapping my left side against the corner of the furniture.
A suffocating wave of heat rushed over my skin. The sharp, familiar scent of him invaded the space. I stared straight ahead at the artwork hanging in the hallway, focusing on the dark wood of the frame.
“We have the whole house to ourselves tonight,” Warren said.
He dropped his voice into a practiced, intimate murmur. It was the exact tone he used on our wedding night, smooth and perfectly calibrated to make me feel safe. He traced his thumb in slow circles against my sleeve.
“Naomi is out, the cameras are gone, and you look absolutely beautiful,” he whispered.
He leaned down, pressing his mouth against the side of my neck. The wet heat of his lips moved across my skin, trailing toward my jawline. Warm breath washed over my collarbone as his free hand dropped to my leg, landing on my knee.
His palm slid upward over my pant leg. His fingers gripped my thigh. The possessive weight of his hand was a sharp reminder of the danger I was in. I wanted to push his chest, to stand up and walk out the front door into the winter wind.
If I shoved him, the illusion of the devoted wife would shatter. He assumed I was completely oblivious. Any sudden rejection would instantly make him suspicious. I left my hands motionless in my lap.
Enduring the slow drag of his palm against my leg, I kept my posture relaxed. He pressed another kiss behind my ear.
Don’t shove him. Think.
I stared at the far wall, calculating how to make him back off on his own.
The stifling heat of his body flooded the narrow space between us. His lips dragged against my neck. I needed an immediate exit that left my mask intact.
I sucked in a ragged breath, letting the air whistle past my teeth.
I threw my upper body forward, breaking contact with his mouth.
I yanked my hands from my lap and clamped them over my stomach.
I dug my fingers into the soft fabric of my top, hunching forward and squeezing my eyes shut to sell the sudden agony.
“Ah!” I cried out. “Oh God, Warren, my stomach.”
The oppressive heat of his body vanished. He sprang off the sofa, his leather shoes hitting the living room rug with a dull thud. The sudden rush of cool air against my collarbone was heaven. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, rocking slightly against the firm cushions to keep up the charade.
“It’s a sharp cramp,” I gasped, forcing a tremble into my voice. “Right across the bottom.”
Warren dropped to his knees beside the sofa, his hands hovering inches from my shoulders.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” Warren demanded. His voice carried a frantic, desperate edge. “Is it a contraction? Are you in labor early?”
I opened my eyes, meeting his panicked stare in the amber shadows. The fear on his face looked genuine.
The realization was sickening. He didn’t care about my pain, and he certainly wasn’t worried about losing his wife.
He was terrified of losing the child he needed to secure my inheritance and give his mistress her dream family.
I was just the vessel, and he thought the vessel was cracking prematurely.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just hurts. It feels wrong.”
He abandoned his spot on the rug, standing up so fast his knee struck the edge of the coffee table. He spun toward the hallway, his pristine posture vanishing into a frantic scramble.
“I’m getting the car keys right now,” Warren ordered. “Don’t move. I’m taking you to the clinic.”
He bolted away from the living room. I stayed curled against the cushions, listening to him tear through the entryway for his keys, exhaling a ragged breath now that I had finally gotten him away from me.
Warren rushed me through the clinic’s glass double doors, keeping a tight grip on my elbow until we reached the triage wing. The sharp, antiseptic scent of rubbing alcohol replaced the suffocating smell of his cologne. Nurse Elena met us in the hallway and guided me into a private room.
I sat on the edge of the rigid hospital mattress, letting my shoulders drop now that I had physical distance between Warren and me.
“Sir, I need you to clear the doorway so I can roll the cart through,” Nurse Elena said, pausing in the hall with a digital fetal monitor station.
Warren stepped back, his leather shoes squeaking against the polished linoleum. He paced the narrow space at the foot of the bed, dragging his hands through his hair.
I leaned back on my elbows while Nurse Elena lifted the hem of my maternity top.
She pulled two elastic monitor bands around my stomach, snapping them into place with clinical efficiency.
The cool plastic of the transducers pressed against my skin.
A second later, the machine booted up. The rhythmic whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat pulsed from the speakers.
“She was just sitting there and the pain hit her out of nowhere,” Warren insisted, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You need to make sure the baby isn’t in any distress.”