Annabella Pov
The few days since that night go by in an agonizing blur, bleeding into weeks and then a month of monotonous, repetitive rhythm.
My life has become a careful, calculated series of avoiding two powerful men. I move through the Astor Group like a ghost, keeping my head down and my eyes fixed on my spreadsheets, my heart always beating loud.
I hold my breath every time an elevator door opens, every time a figure rounds a corner, terrified of seeing either of them. But there is nothing.
Not a single word.
Not a knowing glance.
Not a whisper in the halls.
It is as if that night never happened, a terrifying, beautiful, and utterly unreal dream. The initial panic begins to fade, replaced by a cautious, fragile hope that maybe my secret is safe. Maybe they were too drunk to remember, too powerful to care. Maybe I can finally breathe.
But a new, creeping fear has taken its place.
I wake up that Monday morning feeling a strange, uncomfortable heaviness. It is a subtle thing, not a sudden change, but a slow, undeniable fullness in my lower abdomen.
It is as if a tiny, uninvited guest has taken up residence inside me, a constant, low-grade ache that settles in my gut. I feel bloated, tired, and nauseous. My usual morning coffee, a ritual I crave, smells like burnt rubber.
The thought of drinking it makes my stomach churn. I push the mug away, my appetite gone. I am gaining weight in all the places I never wanted to, with my jeans feeling uncomfortably tight around my hips. My mind reels. It can't be. The morning-after pill was supposed to work. Claire said it would work. But my body is giving me a different story.
"You look different, Bella," Claire says, stirring her coffee. We are having our usual Tuesday morning coffee break on our shared accounting floor. The clatter of keyboards is our usual backdrop.
I force a smile, a hollow thing that doesn't reach my eyes.
"I feel different. It's been a month, Claire. Nothing has happened. No secret emails, no surprise meetings. Nothing." The words are a quiet, desperate prayer. I know I can't tell her about the new symptoms. She'd freak out, and I am not ready to face the truth myself.
Claire's brow furrows with concern. "And the morning-after pill? You took it right? You were with the wrong guy for a while before the other guy joined. Are you... are you sure?" she asks, her voice low.
I squeeze her hand. "Yes, Claire. I took it immediately. We're in the clear."
It is a lie, of course. I had taken the pills, but my body feels strange, different, a sensation that has settled in for weeks now. It is a secret I am not ready to share with anyone yet, a private terror that keeps me up at night.
"Okay. Good. Because you look like a weight has been lifted," she says, her smile returning. "I'm telling you, it was a one-night thing for them. They've probably forgotten all about the 'random chick' at the party."
Her words are a comfort. I almost believe her. I spend the rest of the morning in a fog, my mind a chaotic mess of numbers and anxieties. I try to focus on my spreadsheets, but the columns blur into a meaningless jumble.
Every time a sharp, nauseous pang hits me, my heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a painful, terrifying countdown. I rush to the ladies' room, splashing cold water on my face and trying to calm my racing heart.
My stomach churns, and I am so dizzy. I am so overwhelmed. This can't be happening. I just got my life back, but it is now slipping through my hands.
The afternoon drags on, a slow, agonizing crawl. I push a salad around on my plate, unable to eat, the smell of the vinaigrette making me feel sick. Claire, oblivious to my internal turmoil, chatters on about office gossip.
"They say Killian Astor is in a mood today," she whispers. "He's been yelling at his assistant since this morning."
My fork clatters against the plate. The sound is deafening. My stomach clenches. "Why?" I ask, my voice a shaky whisper.
"No one knows. But I hear it's a financial thing. Apparently, a huge number is off on a quarterly report. It's a huge scandal. You should be glad you're not in the executive accounting department."
My blood runs cold. The quarterly report. I had worked on that report just weeks ago. It was perfect. I checked it over and over again. My heart, which had been a constant drum, now hammers against my ribs like a frantic bird. My hands, clammy and trembling, clutch the edge of the table. No. It can't be.
The rest of the day goes by fast, the hours tick by, each second an eternity, and the nauseous, heavy feeling in my gut grows stronger with every passing minute. My office feels choked. I keep my eyes on my computer screen, but my mind is miles away, racing with a million what-ifs.
Then the email lands.
A simple subject line: "Urgent Meeting." The sender: Killian Astor's executive assistant. My stomach drops. I stare at the screen, my heart hammering in my chest.
The time is in ten minutes. My legs feel like lead as I walk to the executive floor, each step a final march toward my doom. The air thickens with his presence the closer I get to his office.
His office is a vast, minimalist space. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city, but it does nothing to lessen the suffocating atmosphere.
He stands with his back to me, staring out at the cityscape, a figure of intimidating power. A stack of files lies on his desk, and I notice one of them is a report I had meticulously worked on just weeks ago. The silence in the room is heavy. I swallow hard, my throat dry.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Astor?" I ask, my voice shaky.
He turns, and the cold, unyielding emerald gaze I remember from the interview is back. But it's worse. It is laced with a furious, undisguised anger that makes my blood run cold. He doesn't say a word, just points to the file on the desk with a single, sharp gesture.
I shuffle forward, my hands clammy. "The quarterly financials report. I submitted it on time, sir."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "On time, Annabella? Yes. But not correct. The total amount for the month doesn't match the general ledger. It's off by twenty-five thousand dollars. Are you telling me you submitted a fraudulent report?"
My breath hitches. "No, sir! I-I checked and rechecked everything. I swear, the numbers were right. I don't know how that could have happened." The words tumble out, desperate and clumsy. A flicker of heat, a flush of shame, creeps up my neck. Is this his revenge? Is he toying with me?
He slams his hand on the desk, the sound echoing in the silent room. "Don't lie to me!" he roars, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You're trying to cover your tracks. This is an egregious error, and it's a direct violation of company policy!"
I flinch. The noise, the raw anger, it is overwhelming. The memory of his voice that night, low and commanding, feels like a distant dream compared to this furious, accusatory tone.
A knot of hot tears tightens in my throat. This is so unfair. I have spent every waking moment of the past month on high alert, dealing with the aftermath of one single, stupid night, and now I am being accused of something I didn't do.
"I didn't! I wouldn't!" I insist, trying to stand my ground, trying to project a confidence I don't feel. "I swear I didn't make a mistake! The numbers...they matched when I sent them. Something is wrong here, not with my work!"
He takes a step towards me, his eyes blazing. "You've been distracted, haven't you, Annabella? Ever since the company party a month ago, you've been a liability. You've made mistake after mistake!"
The accusation is a brutal, direct hit. My mind reels. The stress, the constant worry, the fear, it all comes crashing down on me. I haven't made any mistakes. I am a professional, and I am being unfairly blamed.
My entire world is collapsing around me, and it is all because of a single night of recklessness. I feel the overwhelming emotion of it all, the burning injustice of being fired after everything I've been through, just to be blamed for something I didn't do.
"You're fired," he says, the words cutting through the air like daggers. "Clean out your desk and be gone by the end of the day."
Fired. The word rings in my ears, deafening. It is over. All my hard work, all my careful planning, all my attempts to build a normal life, gone.
Just like that.
The tears finally spill over, hot and silent, a flood of grief, rage, and overwhelming emotion. I stumble back a step, my head feeling light. I can barely hear his voice over the roaring in my ears, but I see his mouth moving, his expression filled with fury.
He yells at me again, his voice echoing in the vast room, but it is just a loud, garbled sound now. My vision goes gray, the edges of the room blurring. The world tilts violently.
The last thing I see is his enraged face, his eyes wide and dark, before he suddenly changes his expression and starts moving quickly towards me, a look of desperate fear in his eyes. And then, everything goes black.