Page 17 of Arranged with Twins

Sienna

I wake with my stomach already churning, a familiar revolt that’s become my morning alarm clock for the past two weeks. The nausea hits before I’m fully conscious, sending me stumbling toward the bathroom, where I grip the cool marble countertop and wait for the wave to pass.

It’s been nine weeks since Leo and I agreed to keep business and pleasure separate, and we both decided what happened between us was nothing more than stress and poor judgment.

We’ve spent nine weeks attending charity galas, investor meetings, and press events where we play the perfect couple for cameras and photographers.

The performance has become second nature. He always takes my hand at precisely the right moments, his smile appears on cue, and we deliver quotable soundbites about our future together with practiced ease. To everyone watching, we’re Manhattan’s most enviable power couple.

The truth is messier. The moment we step out of public view, careful distance replaces intimacy.

Leo’s attention shifts to his phone, his posture straightens into business mode, and conversations become clipped exchanges about schedules and logistics.

He’s attentive during public appearances and protective when cameras flash, but the second we’re alone, walls of cool politeness slam back into place.

No more heat. No more touching. And certainly, no more passionate sex.

I tell myself I prefer this arrangement, with clean boundaries, clear expectations, and no emotional complications to navigate.

The distance makes everything simpler and more manageable.

We’re just two people fulfilling a contract with professional courtesy and nothing more.

This was how I envisioned the arrangement would play out anyway before I ever saw him again, and things got so complicated.

Yet every morning I wake with this hollow sensation that has nothing to do with nausea and everything to do with how completely Leo has retreated from anything resembling a genuine bond between us. Our merger will be one of misery and despair if this is the best we can do.

The bathroom mirror reflects someone I barely recognize. I’m not happy at all.

I splash cold water on my face and try to summon energy for another day of pretending everything is exactly as it should be.

Back in the kitchen, I attempt breakfast with the same enthusiasm I’d show for eating cardboard. The scrambled eggs on my plate might as well be toxic waste for how appealing they look. Even the smell of coffee, once my morning salvation, now makes my stomach clench in warning.

I push food around with my fork, taking microscopic bites while mentally cataloging the changes in my body over the past several weeks.

The exhaustion that hits at odd hours, the way certain foods now repel me, and the strange sensitivity to smells that never bothered me before are all telling, but I’m trying my best to ignore them.

I know what it is.

I just don’t want to admit it.

When I missed my first period five weeks ago, I attributed it to stress.

Mother has taken complete control of wedding planning, transforming what should have been my choices into another series of obligations.

She schedules dress fittings without consulting me, books venues I’ve never seen, and makes decisions about flowers, music, and catering as if I’m merely an accessory to my own ceremony.

I’ve stopped caring. This is a merger, not a marriage.

Leo made that clear when he dismissed our night together as an impulse driven by pressure and poor judgment.

If he wants to treat our engagement as a business arrangement with public appearances and private distance, then I’ll play my part accordingly.

I won’t invest emotions into rebelling against my mother for a wedding that is little more than a contract signing.

The second missed period is harder to ignore, but I’ve been doing my damndest for the past few days. I stare at the congealing eggs on my plate and force myself to acknowledge what I’ve been avoiding for days.

The math is simple enough. Nine weeks ago, Leo and I had sex before we both agreed to pretend it never happened. Now my body is staging a rebellion that has nothing to do with stress and everything to do with consequences neither of us considered.

My phone buzzes with a text from Nadia announcing she’s on her way up with coffee and pastries from our favorite bakery.

I abandon my attempted breakfast and move to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of Manhattan that usually comforts me.

Today, the city looks hostile, all sharp angles and unforgiving concrete.

The elevator chimes, and Nadia’s voice carries down the hallway before I see her.

“I brought reinforcements in the form of chocolate croissants and gossip about last night’s gallery opening.

” She appears in my doorway with her usual energy, arms full of bakery bags and a coffee carrier that smells like salvation. “You missed quite the drama between?—”

She stops mid-sentence when she looks at me properly, her expression shifting from cheerful to concerned in the space of a heartbeat. “You look terrible.” She sets everything on the coffee table and studies my face for a long moment. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”

“I sleep fine.” The lie comes automatically, though the dark circles under my eyes probably tell a different story. “I’m just tired. Wedding planning is more exhausting than anyone warns you about.”

She snorts, calling me out with the ease of a best friend. “Wedding planning you’re not actually doing, since Katherine has appointed herself dictator of all things bridal.” Nadia pours coffee into two cups and hands me one. “Try again. What’s really wrong?”

The coffee smells rich and inviting, but when I bring the cup to my lips, my stomach lurches in immediate protest. I set it down quickly, hoping Nadia doesn’t notice the way my face goes pale.

She notices everything. “Sienna.” Her voice carries a note of suspicion that makes my chest clench. “Why aren’t you drinking your coffee? You practically mainline caffeine.”

“I’m just not in the mood this morning.” I reach for a pain au chocolat instead, thinking pastry might be easier on my rebellious stomach. “Tell me about the gallery opening. You designed the owner’s dress, right? Oh, what kind of drama?”

Nadia ignores my attempt to redirect the conversation.

She sits on the edge of the coffee table, positioning herself directly in front of me, where evasion becomes impossible.

“You’re pale, you won’t drink coffee, and you’ve been pushing food around your plate instead of eating the last several times we’ve eaten together.

” She pauses as though thinking back. “Plus, you’ve been weird for weeks.

You’re distracted, emotional, and you keep putting your hand on your stomach when you think no one’s looking. ”

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how transparent I’ve been. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Nadia crosses her arms and fixes me with a stare that could cut glass as she looks pointedly at my stomach, where my hand has drifted automatically.

As I shift to my leg, she shakes her head.

“You’re exhibiting classic symptoms of either food poisoning or pregnancy.

Since you haven’t mentioned being sick, and food poisoning severe enough to last this long probably would have killed you by now… ”

The words are a gentle accusation. I open my mouth to deny it, to laugh off her suspicions and redirect the conversation to safer territory.

Instead, what comes out is a strangled sound that’s part sob, part confession.

“I think I’m pregnant.” Saying the words aloud makes them real in a way that thinking them never could.

Her expression shifts through several emotions before landing on gentle concern. “How sure are we talking? Think pregnant, or know pregnant?”

“I think, hope not, and pray I’m wrong.” I set down the untouched croissant and lean back against the couch cushions. “I’ve missed two periods, I can’t keep food down, and everything smells wrong. I haven’t taken a test because...”

“Because you’re scared of knowing the truth.” She finishes the thought when I can’t. “Gotcha. Been there in college, but it was a false alarm. I understand that real means dealing with consequences you’re not ready to face though.”

I nod, grateful she understands without requiring detailed explanations.

A pregnancy alters everything about my arrangement with Leo, my future, and the careful distance we’ve maintained since agreeing to keep business and pleasure separate.

We can’t co-parent if we can’t even be in the same room together for a few minutes if cameras aren’t on us.

“What are you going to do if the test is positive?” Nadia’s voice is carefully neutral, free of judgment or pressure.

“I don’t know.” The admission comes with a rush of relief at finally voicing my confusion aloud. “Leo and I aren’t even really together. We’re business partners playing roles for the cameras. He made it very clear that what happened between us was a mistake driven by stress and poor judgment.”

“Maybe his perspective would change if he knew about this.”

“Or maybe he’d see it as another tool for control?

” The possibility makes my stomach clench with something worse than nausea.

“Nadia, in Leo’s world, everything becomes leverage.

A pregnancy wouldn’t be about a baby or a future family.

It would be about binding me to him permanently, about ensuring I can never leave or challenge his authority, and he’d take over everything…

my life, the child’s…” I sniff back tears.