Chapter 3

At 8:55 a.m., I pushed open Holden's office door.

"Close it," he said without looking up.

I did. The click sounded too loud.

He finally looked at me. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp. Dangerous.

"Sit."

I sat, hands shaking in my lap.

"What happened Friday night?"

My throat closed. I pulled out my phone with trembling hands, typed quickly.

The robotic voice filled the room. "I'm sorry. You weren't yourself. I should have stopped it."

His jaw clenched. "Did I force you?"

I shook my head violently. No. God, no.

"Then why are you apologizing?" His voice was cold. Controlled. "You're acting like I assaulted you."

I typed faster, desperate to make him understand.

"No. I... I wanted it too."

The words hung between us.

Holden's expression didn't change, but his knuckles went white where they gripped the armrest.

"You wanted it," he repeated slowly. "You wanted to sleep with your boss. In the office break room. While I was on medication that made me barely coherent."

Put like that, it sounded awful.

I typed again, hands shaking so hard I had to backspace twice.

"I'm sorry. It was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"No." He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "It won't. Because it can't. Do you understand? I'm your supervisor. You're an intern. This—" He gestured between us. "This was a violation of about twenty company policies."

I nodded. Blinked back tears.

"I could lose everything," he continued, voice tight. "My company. My reputation. Everything I've built. And you—" He turned to look at me. "You could sue me. Claim I took advantage of a vulnerable employee who can't even speak to defend herself."

Is that what he thought? That I'd use this against him?

I grabbed my notepad, scribbled quickly: I would never.

He stared at the words. Something flickered across his face—relief? Regret?

"I know." His voice softened slightly. "I know you wouldn't. But that doesn't change what happened."

He walked back to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a box of tissues. Held it out to me.

I hadn't realized I was crying until then.

"I'm not firing you," he said quietly. "You're good at your job. What happened Friday... we forget it happened. We move on. Can you do that?"

I took a tissue. Nodded.

"Good." He sat back down, opened his laptop. "You can go."

I stood, legs unsteady, and walked to the door.

"Wren."

I turned.

His eyes met mine, and for just a second, I saw something raw there. Something that looked like regret.

"It wasn't a mistake for me."

Then he looked back at his screen, dismissing me.

I left before I could do something stupid like cry harder.

The next six weeks were torture.

I buried myself in work, came in early, left late, never went near the break room. Holden walked past my desk exactly zero times. We didn't speak. Didn't look at each other.

It was like Friday night had been erased.

Except I couldn't erase it. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him above me, heard him whispering my name. Felt his hands on my skin.

And then, six weeks and three days after that night, I threw up in the office bathroom.

I'd been feeling off for days. Tired. Nauseous. I'd blamed it on stress, on working too hard, on anything except the truth.

But when I stared at the positive pregnancy test in my shaking hands, there was no more denying it.

This wasn't possible. Holden couldn't have kids. Everyone knew about the skiing accident, the injuries that left him infertile. It was why his fiancée left him, why he'd never married.

But the test didn't lie.

I flushed it, washed my hands three times, and stared at my reflection. My face was pale, eyes too wide.

What was I going to do?

I couldn't tell him. He'd think I trapped him. That I'd planned this somehow. And maybe I had—maybe I'd known deep down what could happen and I'd done it anyway because I'd wanted him so badly I didn't care.

I had to leave. Had to disappear before anyone found out.

By the end of the day, I'd typed up my resignation letter.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself.

David responded within an hour, accepting my resignation with what sounded like relief. One less problem for him to manage.

But I should have known Holden would see it.

I was packing up my desk the next morning when he appeared.

"What the hell is this?"

I looked up. He was holding a printed copy of my resignation letter, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.

People were staring.

"My office. Now."

I shook my head. Pointed to my half-packed box.

"I said now, Wren."

The entire floor had gone silent.

I followed him.

He slammed his office door hard enough to rattle the glass.

"You're quitting?" He threw the letter on his desk. "Just like that? No notice, no explanation, just 'family circumstances'?"

I pulled out my phone.

"I have to."

"Bullshit." He leaned against his desk, arms crossed. "What happened? Did someone say something to you? Is it because of that night? Because I told you we'd forget it."

I typed: "It's not that. I just need to go home."

"You're lying."

I was. But what else could I say?

"Whatever it is," he said, voice dropping, "I'll fix it. You want a transfer? A different supervisor? More money? Just name it."

I shook my head.

"Then what?" He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between us. "Talk to me. Please."

I wanted to. Wanted to tell him everything. But my throat was closed, and even if I could speak, what would I say?

I'm pregnant with your impossible baby.

Instead, I turned to leave.

He grabbed my arm. Not hard, just enough to stop me.

"Don't go."

I pulled free and ran.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up again. Knelt on the cold tile, retching, while someone knocked on the stall door.

"Wren? You okay?"

Rebecca's voice. Great.

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

After a moment, her footsteps retreated.

I sat there, forehead pressed against the cool metal, trying not to sob.

This was a disaster. A complete disaster.

I had to get out. Had to leave before anyone figured it out.

I made it through the rest of the day by avoiding everyone. Left at five on the dot, practically ran to the subway.

My phone buzzed with messages from David, from HR, confirming my last day would be Friday.

Three more days. I could survive three more days.

Tuesday passed in a blur. Wednesday, I called in sick.

Thursday morning, someone knocked on my apartment door.

I was in my pajamas, hair unwashed, barely functioning. Jenna had already left for her nursing shift.

Maybe it was a package. Or a neighbor.

I opened the door.

Holden Pierce stood in my hallway, still in his suit, looking like he hadn't slept.

"We need to talk," he said.