Page 138 of Babies for the Big Shot

“Are you sure about this?” Nick asked this morning, arms crossed, voice lined with concern he tried to hide behind logic. “You could log in from home. Or not at all.”

“I’m pregnant, not dying,” I told him. “I need to feel normal.”

And now, standing here, I’m wondering if I overestimated how much I care about normal.

Because I step off the elevator and the whispering starts before I make it past the glass conference room. Quick glances. Broken eye contact. The subtle hush of conversations folding like cheap lawn chairs.

I walk faster.

“Morning, Sara,” Tina chirps the second I reach my desk, appearing from behind a filing cabinet with something roughly the size of a twin mattress in her arms.

“What isthat?”

“It’s lumbar support. Technically for third trimester, but why wait?” she half-whispers so no one else can hear, shoving it against the back of my chair with alarming efficiency. “You’re a precious resource now. We guard precious resources.”

“I’m not a Fabergé egg, Tina.”

“You’re carrying triplets. You’re basically a Fabergé egg full of more eggs.”

She beams. I sigh.

To her credit, Tina is discreet in the way only an HR director who’s seen six scandals, three divorces, and a minor embezzlement attempt can be. She’s the one person who needs to know, so she can set up my medical benefits and keep a lid on things until I’m ready.

Which I’m not. Not even close.

“Can I get you anything else? Crackers? Ice chips? A blood oath from Facilities to install a footrest?”

“I’m fine, Tina.”

She narrows her eyes. “Drink your water.”

I hold up the bottle she refilled thirty seconds ago.

“Good. And if anyone says anything inappropriate, you tell me. Or Nick. We need to take care of you.”

I nod, half listening as I open my inbox and try to pretend I don’t hear two junior associates whispering near the supply closet.

Did I just hear something about “all that time off?”

Oh god.

I don’t like this. Not one bit.

My throat tightens.

I turn back to my screen, focus narrowing to the inbox as I scroll as if it might hold something sharp enough to cut through the weight pressing behind my ribs.

Ten new emails.

Three flagged “high priority.”

One from legal, two from marketing, and a follow-up from a client I forgot to respond to the last time I was here.

Perfect. Work. Glorious, mind-numbing, soul-sucking work. I click open the spreadsheet attachment as my life raft.

I can do this.

I have done this. On two hours of sleep. On no sleep. Once with food poisoning and a deadline from hell.