Chapter 5 5.

Chapter 5: Ashley’s POV

I hated airports because they always felt like goodbye.

And lately, pregnancy hormones had apparently decided goodbye scenes were the perfect opportunity to emotionally destroy me.

Which was why I stood near the departure gate at six in the morning trying very hard not to cry while Simone hugged me tightly.

“You look exhausted,” she murmured softly against my hair. I rolled my eyes as if she could see me.

“That’s because normal people sleep at this hour.” She pulled back slightly, smiling weakly.

Even smiling, she looked pale. Nash stood nearby speaking quietly into his phone, probably handling business before boarding an international flight.

Meanwhile, I was one emotional inconvenience away from sobbing into airport flooring.

“You’ll call me every day,” I ordered Simone.

“I will.” She smiled again...weakly.

“And if the doctors annoy you, threaten them financially.”

“Ashley.”

“I’m serious. Fear creates efficiency.” That earned a small laugh from her. I knew Simone. And beneath all her calmness, she was scared too. I could see it in her eyes.

The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal.

My chest immediately tightened. Simone hugged me again, longer this time.

“Take care of yourself,” she whispered carefully. “And don’t skip meals.” I almost laughed at the irony. My entire life people begged me to stop partying.

Now suddenly everybody wanted me eating vegetables and resting properly like I’d transformed into a delicate ecosystem.

“I’ll survive,” I muttered my most used line. Her hand briefly touched my stomach before she stepped back. That tiny movement nearly broke me emotionally.

Because suddenly this pregnancy felt real again.

“There’s a driver waiting for you outside,” Nash informed me after ending his call. “He’ll take you to the company Monday morning.”

Right.

The company.

The terrifying corporate battlefield I somehow agreed to enter while hormonally unstable and growing a human.

Fantastic.

“You still have time to reconsider giving me executive responsibility,” I offered weakly.

“You’ll manage.”

“That sounds suspiciously optimistic.” Nash actually looked amused.

Then the final boarding call echoed again. Simone hugged me one last time before walking toward the gate beside Nash.

And just like that…

They left. I stood there long after they disappeared from sight.

**

By the time Monday arrived, my emotional breakdown had evolved into full panic. I stood inside my apartment staring at my closet like it had personally betrayed me.

Nothing fit right anymore. My body was changing subtly now. Not enough for strangers to notice. But enough for me to notice.

My waist felt softer. My breasts hurt constantly. And every outfit suddenly carried the question... Does this make me look pregnant?

At eight weeks, my stomach still looked mostly flat unless I wore something tight. Thank God. I was not emotionally prepared for visible pregnancy conversations yet.

Eventually, I settled on a fitted cream blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt with heels high enough to compensate for my lack of executive credibility.

If I was going to embarrass myself today, at least I’d do it looking hot.

I studied myself in the mirror afterward.

Sexy. Elegant. Dangerously underqualified.

Perfect.

The company building towered over the city like it personally paid taxes for everyone beneath it.

Glass. Steel. Money.

Too much money.

I stepped out of the car trying to project confidence despite internally feeling like a fraud wearing designer heels. Employees moved around the lobby carrying tablets and coffees while security greeted me immediately.

“Good morning, Ms. Martin.” That was terrifying. How did they already know my face?

I entered the elevator clutching Simone’s company access card like it might save my life.

It didn’t.

The higher the elevator climbed, the more nauseous I became. Pregnancy nausea and anxiety were an abusive combination.

By the time the elevator doors opened on the executive floor, I genuinely considered turning around and fleeing the country.

Unfortunately, a woman in a navy suit immediately approached me.

“Ms. Martin?” she asked politely.

“Yes?”

“I’m Clara, Ms. Orwell’s assistant. The board meeting begins in twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes? I wasn’t even emotionally prepared for breakfast.

“Oh,” I replied intelligently.

Clara smiled professionally like she already sensed I was a disaster but was too trained to acknowledge it.

“This way.” The executive hallway was absurdly luxurious. Everything smelled expensive.

Even the air conditioning felt rich.

Portraits lined the walls beside massive windows overlooking the city skyline. Employees lowered their voices when walking past offices like the floor itself demanded authority.

Meanwhile, I was trying not to trip in heels.

“Here are the reports for today’s meeting,” Clara explained while handing me a folder. “The Bryson collaboration proposal is the main agenda.”

Bryson.

Marcus Bryson.

I suddenly remembered Simone’s warning. Marcus Bryson doesn’t intimidate people like you.

Honestly? That sounded less reassuring now. We stopped outside enormous double doors.

The boardroom.

Clara opened the doors smoothly. Every conversation inside immediately quieted.

Wow!

Nothing built confidence like thirty executives staring at you. I forced myself not to visibly panic while walking toward the empty chair at the far end of the table.

Fake confidence. That was the key.

Rich men respected confidence even when it was completely fabricated.

“Good morning,” I greeted calmly. Several people answered politely. Others looked skeptical.

Understandable.

I would also question why a woman who looked more suited for champagne parties than corporate negotiations suddenly sat in Simone Orwell’s position.

A gray-haired executive adjusted his glasses carefully.

“Ms. Orwell informed us of the temporary arrangement.”

Temporary arrangement. Such polite wording for 'good luck surviving this mess.'

I smiled sweetly anyway.

“Then you already know lowering expectations is highly recommended.” A few surprised laughs escaped around the table.

Okay. Maybe humor would keep me alive today.

For the next several minutes, people discussed numbers, acquisitions, projections, and other corporate words that sounded vaguely threatening.

I listened carefully. Observed carefully. They were just more confident while saying confusing things.

Interesting. Maybe I could survive this after all.

Then the boardroom doors opened again. The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Conversations stopped. Several executives straightened automatically. Even the room itself suddenly felt colder.

And somehow— before I even looked up— I already knew who entered. I lifted my eyes slowly.

Tall. Dark suit. Sharp features. Cold composure. He looks intimidating. Like this environment belonged to him naturally. His gaze moved across the room calmly before landing on me.

And stopping.

For one strange second, neither of us looked away. His expression remained unreadable. Mine probably screamed hormonal confusion.

Then one of the executives cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Mr. Bryson.” Marcus finally looked away from me before taking his seat across the table.

Directly across from me. Of course. He placed a folder down calmly before speaking for the first time.

His voice was low. Controlled. Sharp enough to cut glass.

“Looks like the Orwells didn’t take this collaboration seriously after all.” Silence crashed across the room.

Every eye turned toward me instantly.

And Marcus Bryson— the emotionally unavailable billionaire nightmare himself— looked directly at me while delivering the insult.