Chapter 7 7.
Chapter 7: Ashley’s POV
I spent the fifteen-minute break hiding in the executive restroom questioning every life decision that led me here.
Pregnancy. Corporate meetings. Marcus Bryson.
Honestly, all three felt equally dangerous.
I splashed cold water against my face before staring at my reflection.
“You survived the first half,” I muttered to myself.
Barely.
My nausea had calmed slightly, though my head still throbbed from stress and lack of proper food. Apparently surviving on sparkling water and sarcasm wasn’t medically recommended during pregnancy.
Who knew?
By the time I returned to the boardroom, the executives were already seated again.
Marcus sat at the far end of the table reviewing documents calmly like he hadn’t spent the first half of the meeting personally attacking my existence.
His eyes lifted briefly when I entered.
Just briefly. But somehow it still felt like being scanned. I ignored him and took my seat.
The second half of the meeting went surprisingly… peacefully. Well. Peaceful for corporate warfare standards.
Marcus still challenged almost every opinion I gave, but now it felt less like outright dismissal and more like he genuinely expected me to argue back.
Which was psychotic behavior honestly.
At one point, I caught one of the older executives staring between us with visible confusion. Is this all new to them?
Fair.
Even I didn’t understand whatever strange verbal combat Marcus and I had developed.
But somehow… I survived.
When the meeting finally ended, relief nearly made me emotional. People slowly gathered their documents and exited the room while Clara approached me carefully.
“You did very well today, Ms. Martin.” I stared at her suspiciously. Was she being sarcastic or what?
“Was I in the same meeting as everyone else?” A small laugh escaped her.
“This way. I’ll show you your office.”
Office. Right. Apparently I had one of those now.
The executive floor hallway felt less terrifying this time as Clara guided me toward a corner office overlooking the city skyline.
The moment she opened the doors, I froze slightly. It was beautiful. Modern. Elegant. Huge.
Way too nice for someone who once used pizza boxes as decorative furniture.
“The files from Ms. Orwell’s pending projects are already organized on the desk,” Clara explained. “If you need anything, just contact me directly.”
I nodded slowly while walking farther inside.
The office smelled faintly like expensive wood and coffee. Adult responsibility.
Disgusting.
After Clara left, I dropped into the chair behind the desk dramatically.
Then immediately regretted it because pregnancy apparently turned standing up into a full athletic event.
By lunchtime, I was starving.
Unfortunately, the moment I entered the company cafeteria, every smell hit me at once.
Fried food. Coffee. Soup. Seafood.
Absolutely not.
My stomach turned violently.
“Nope,” I whispered immediately before turning around.
I decided I’d just eat somewhere outside instead. Fresh air sounded safer.
By the time I reached the parking area beneath the building, my dizziness had already started.
Too fast. Too sudden.
I slowed near my car, blinking hard. The concrete parking structure suddenly felt too bright. Too hot. Too loud.
Oh no.
Not now.
I reached toward the hood of my car for support— but before my hand could even touch it, a strong arm wrapped around my waist firmly.
Warm. Steady.
“Anything wrong?”
Marcus.
Of course it was Marcus.
Because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating me specifically in front of him.
I turned toward him weakly, trying to form words.
“I’m fi—”
The world tilted violently. And then everything went black.
---
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell.
Hospital. Immediately terrible. The second thing I noticed was the soft beeping nearby. The third thing—
Marcus Bryson sitting beside the hospital bed.
I blinked slowly. Why did he still look annoyingly composed inside a hospital? Meanwhile I probably looked like death with lip gloss.
A doctor entered the room after noticing my eyes were open.
“Good, you’re awake.” I pushed myself upright slightly.
“My head hurts.”
“You fainted from exhaustion and low blood sugar,” the doctor explained gently. “Have you been under unusual stress recently?” I laughed once. Marcus looked entirely unimpressed. “You also appear mildly dehydrated,” the doctor continued while checking my chart. “Have you experienced nausea? Vomiting? Appetite changes?”
“Yes,” I answered weakly. “Constantly.” The doctor paused briefly before asking casually—
“Any possibility you could be pregnant?”
The room went silent. Right. I forgot Marcus was here.
Oops. I sighed heavily.
“Yes.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marcus raise one eyebrow slightly. Not dramatic shock. Not judgment.
Just... surprised. Which somehow annoyed me anyway.
“How far along?” the doctor asked.
“Eight weeks.” The doctor nodded calmly while writing notes.
“That explains the nausea and fainting. You need proper nutrition and rest, especially during the first trimester.”
First trimester. Hearing it spoken aloud still felt surreal sometimes.
“I’m okay,” I muttered quickly. “I just didn’t have a decent breakfast.”
The doctor gave me a look that clearly said 'And whose fault is that?'
Mine. Obviously.
“I’ll prescribe vitamins and have the nurse bring something light for you to eat before discharge,” she said kindly. “No skipping meals.”
“Yes, doctor.”
After she left, silence settled across the room. I suddenly became painfully aware of Marcus still sitting beside the bed.
Tall. Quiet. Watching me carefully.
Wonderful.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“Twenty-three minutes.”
I couldn't help but grimaced. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I checked.” Of course he did. I looked away awkwardly.
“This is embarrassing,” I uttered.
“You fainted.” Exactly!
“In front of you.”
“Yes.”
“Horrifying.” Something almost amused flickered across his face. Almost.
“You should’ve said something earlier,” he said calmly.
“Something about what?” About me being pregnant?
“You weren’t feeling well during the meeting.” Oh.
I frowned slightly. Was he… concerned? No. Impossible. Marcus Bryson looked biologically incapable of concern.
“I was handling it.”
“Poorly.” Rude. I crossed my arms carefully over the hospital blanket.
“You know, most people buy flowers before insulting hospitalized women.”
“You’re not hospitalized.”
“You’re ruining the emotional atmosphere.”
That tiny almost-smile appeared again.
Dangerous.
Because somehow Marcus Bryson becoming mildly entertained by me felt more threatening than him being cold.
