Chapter 3 Double Jeopardy
Richard: POV
Two months later, I jolted awake feeling like my insides were revolting.
I stumbled out of bed for what felt like the hundredth morning in a row, barely making it to the bathroom before violently emptying my stomach.
Nothing stayed down anymore—not toast, not crackers, not even water sometimes.
Hunched over the toilet, I pressed my forehead against the cool porcelain, feeling like absolute shit. What the fuck was happening to me?
"This is getting ridiculous," I muttered, splashing cold water on my face.
The man in the mirror looked like hell—pale, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes.
My phone buzzed with a text from my handler at Homeland Security. I was supposed to be gathering intel on suspicious financial activities at Quinn Cybersecurity, not puking my guts out every morning.
[Will be there. Minor stomach bug.]
I'd tried everything—antacids, ginger ale, even my grandmother's old remedy of saltines and flat Sprite. Nothing worked.
After another day of barely functioning, I finally made an appointment at Memorial Hospital.
"Blood work looks normal, Mr. Bloom. No signs of infection or inflammation," the doctor said.
I shook my head. "That can't be right. I've been sick every morning for two months."
"Based on your symptoms, I'd suggest this might be stress-related."
I left with zero answers. Two more days of misery later, I called Dr. Harrison, our family physician.
Dr. Harrison's office was all mahogany paneling and leather chairs. The man himself hadn't changed in twenty years: silver hair, bow tie, perpetually bemused expression.
"Richard, my boy," he said. "What seems to be the trouble?"
I recounted my symptoms, trying to push away the nagging thought that kept surfacing.
"And this has been going on for how long?"
"About two months now. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes smells trigger it. Coffee is the worst—can't even be in the same room with it brewing."
He ran through the standard tests. "Physically, you appear to be in excellent health."
I groaned. "That's what the other doctor said."
Dr. Harrison paused thoughtfully. "This might sound unusual, but have you considered that someone close to you might be pregnant?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"There's a condition called Couvade syndrome—sympathetic pregnancy. Some men experience these exact symptoms when their partner is expecting."
My blood ran cold. The timeframe fit perfectly—exactly two months since that night with Camellia. But she'd been so dismissive, so calculating about the whole thing. She'd said she wouldn't make me take responsibility.
"That's... that's impossible," I stammered, though my voice lacked conviction.
Images of Camellia flashed through my mind—her cold expression that morning, the way she'd looked at me like I was some kind of mistake, her cutting remark about my "mediocre performance."
But what if she'd been hiding something all along?
Camellia: POV
I was wrapping up a strategy session when the wave of nausea hit.
Our algorithm had finally cracked the predictive modeling for retail consumer behavior, and we were close to landing three new major clients.
"Excuse me," I said quickly, rushing to the bathroom.
This was the third time this week. I'd been attributing it to stress from the endless work hours, the pressure of keeping the company competitive, but deep down, I knew I was avoiding the obvious explanation.
When I returned to the conference room, Ethan gave me a concerned look. "Cam, you okay? You've seemed off lately."
"Just tired. Long hours," I deflected, though my hands trembled slightly as I reached for my water.
"That's a wrap, everyone," I said. "Ethan, can you update the pitch deck with the new data points?"
My COO nodded. "Already on it. The accuracy improvements are impressive—94.7%."
As the team filtered out, Ethan lingered. "Hey, want to grab dinner and finish the quarterly projections?"
"That sounds perfect, I'm starv—" I stopped mid-sentence as another wave of nausea rolled over me.
The truth I'd been avoiding for weeks crashed over me. Two missed periods. The occasional nausea I'd attributed to stress and irregular meals. The exhaustion I'd blamed on eighteen-hour workdays.
"Actually, I have a family emergency," I said quickly. "Rain check?"
The drive home was a blur of panic and disbelief. I stopped at a pharmacy and bought three different pregnancy tests, my hands shaking as I paid.
In my bathroom, I fumbled with the packaging. If I was pregnant, I'd be about eight weeks along. The night with Richard was the only possibility—I hadn't been with anyone else in months.
I'd meant to get the morning-after pill the next day, but then everything had fallen apart at work. The Quinn deal collapsed, our database was compromised, three major clients threatened to leave. I'd been putting out fires for weeks, and by the time I remembered...
The timer went off.
Two pink lines. All three tests showed two pink lines.
I sank onto the edge of the bathtub, staring at the tests in disbelief. "This can't be happening," I whispered.
But I needed to be absolutely certain. Home tests could be wrong, couldn't they?
The next morning, I drove to Memorial Hospital, my hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
The doctor confirmed what the home tests had told me: eight weeks pregnant.
"Have you thought about your options?" she asked gently.
"I..." I started, then stopped. The word "terminate" was on my tongue, but something held me back. "I need time to process this."
She handed me some information papers and scheduled a follow-up appointment. I stuffed everything into my bag along with my lab results, my mind spinning with uncertainty.
In my rush to leave, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, I collided with someone in the hallway.
My bag fell, spilling its contents—including the pregnancy test results.
"I'm so sorry," the woman said, helping gather my things.
She was elegantly dressed, with sharp, intelligent eyes and an air of authority that screamed old money. She picked up the lab report and handed it to me. As our eyes met, I felt a chill of recognition. Those piercing blue eyes could only belong to a Bloom.
This was Richard's sister, Victoria.
"Thank you," I said stiffly, shoving everything back into my bag.
Victoria's gaze lingered on me with sharp intelligence. Had she seen the lab report? Did she recognize my name from the header?
"Take care," she said simply, but there was something knowing in her tone.
I practically ran to my car, heart pounding. Of all people to run into—Richard's sister, at a hospital, while I'm carrying pregnancy test results. What were the odds?
As I started the engine, my phone rang. Richard's name flashed on the screen.
I stared at it, my heart hammering. I couldn't deal with him right now, not when I was still processing everything myself.
I let it go to voicemail.
But before I could even pull out of the parking lot, my phone rang again. This time it was Ethan's name flashing on the screen.
"Cam, you need to get back here now," he said, his voice urgent. "There's a crisis at the company."
"What kind of crisis?" I asked uneasily.
I clutched my steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white as Ethan's panicked voice echoed through my car speakers.
"Cam, this is bad. Really bad. All our investors are pulling out. Every single one."
My hands trembled as I gripped the steering wheel. Pregnant, possibly exposed to the Bloom family, and now my company was collapsing.
"How is that even possible?" I whispered.
"Someone's been spreading rumors about our financial stability. This feels coordinated, Cam. Like someone wants to destroy us."
