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By the time I reach my office, the nausea has subsided enough that I can focus on the day ahead. Taylor, my assistant, is waiting with my usual morning coffee.
"Morning, Ms. Monroe," she says brightly, following me into my office. "The Milan factory sent revised production timelines for the sustainable leather goods, Marketing wants to discuss the social media strategy for the spring launch, and Mr. Kade asked for the Q3 projections by end of day."
The mere scent of coffee sends another wave of nausea crashing through me. I wave the cup away, earning a surprised look from Taylor. "Just water today, thanks. And tell Marketing I'll meet them at eleven."
"Are you feeling alright?" Taylor asks, concern etched on her face. "You look a little pale."
"Just a touch of something," I say dismissively. "Nothing serious. Probably that questionable sushi from yesterday."
Taylor nods, though she doesn't look entirely convinced. "There's also a Mr. Sullivan who called twice this morning. He wouldn't state his business but said it was personal. Should I add him to your call list?"
Camden. The flowers he sent last week weren't enough, apparently. I suppress a sigh. "No, that won't be necessary. If he calls again, please tell him I'm unavailable."
"Of course." Taylor hesitates at the door. "One more thing. There's a delivery for you at reception."
"Another delivery?" I ask, stomach dropping. Last week it was an enormous arrangement of lilies—my favorite, which Camden well knows—with a note mentioning "second chances" and "regrets." I'd donated the flowers to the hospital down the street and tossed the card.
"I believe so," Taylor confirms. "Should I have it sent up?"
"No," I say firmly. "Whatever it is, donate it or send it back. I'm not accepting personal deliveries at work."
"Understood." Taylor makes a note, then leaves me to the mountain of work awaiting my attention.
I manage to power through most of the morning, ignoring both the persistent queasiness and thoughts of Camden's unwelcome persistence. The marketing meeting goes well, my team presenting concepts for the Lumière spring campaign that perfectly capture my vision for authentic luxury that celebrates imperfection. I make a few suggestions but mostly find myself impressed by how fully they've embraced the new direction.
It's only when I'm heading to the executive dining room for lunch with Olivia that the nausea returns with a vengeance. I barely make it to the nearest restroom before emptying the meager contents of my stomach.
"Cassie?" Olivia's voice echoes in the marble bathroom. "Are you in here?"
I emerge from the stall, pale and shaky, to find my best friend looking at me with an expression somewhere between concern and suspicion.
"Don't start," I warn, moving to the sink to rinse my mouth. "It's just stress."
"Mm-hmm." Olivia leans against the counter, studying me like I'm one of her magazine's photo layouts. "Stress. That's definitely what's happening here."
"What else would it be?" I splash cold water on my face, avoiding her gaze in the mirror.
"Oh, I don't know," Olivia says with exaggerated casualness. "Maybe something that often causes morning sickness, breast tenderness, and emotional volatility?"
I freeze, water dripping from my chin. "I'm not pregnant."
"When was your last period?"
I open my mouth to answer, then close it again, mentally counting backward. "That doesn't mean anything. I've always been irregular, especially when I'm stressed."
"But you've never been this nauseous," Olivia points out. "Or turned down coffee three days in a row."
"You're keeping track of my coffee intake now?"
"Someone has to, since you're clearly in denial." She digs through her oversized handbag and produces a small paper bag, which she thrusts toward me. "Here."
I peer inside to find a pregnancy test. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Humor me," she says, her expression softening. "Then we can go to lunch and I'll listen to all the reasons why it's impossible."
"It is impossible," I insist, though a tendril of doubt curls in my stomach alongside the nausea. "We're careful."
"No method is one hundred percent effective," Olivia reminds me. "Not even for the great Roman Kade and his legendary control."