Page 155 of What Comes Around

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?”