Page 164 of Sexting the Boss

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Yes, you do.”

My eyes burn. “I’m scared.”

“Of him?”

“Of everything,” I whisper. “Of being alone. Of screwing this up. Of becoming my mom. Of telling him and watching him shut down and look at me like I ruined everything.”

Melanie’s voice softens. “Do you want to keep it?”

I stare down at the blurry shape on the scan again. My throat tightens.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say. “But…I think I already love it.”

Melanie doesn’t say anything for a long time, just reaches over and gently holds my hand.

And for once, I don’t feel alone.

Even if I’ll have to face the rest of it completely on my own.

* * *

The office feels smallerwhen you know people are whispering behind your back.

They don’t even try to be subtle. I hear it the moment I step out of the elevator. The low murmur of conversations that trail off when I pass by, the shift in eye contact, the sudden interest in pretending to work really hard on that spreadsheet when I’m within earshot.

And Brittany—Queen of Passive Aggression herself—is leading the charge.

She doesn’t say anything directly. Of course not. That would require a spine. But I see her whispering to Alyssa by the coffee machine, both of them glancing my way like I’m an alien that crash-landed in their cubicle galaxy.

Still, I keep my chin up and march to my desk like I don’t hear a thing. Like I’m not carrying a thousand things in my chest—uncertainty, hormones, morning sickness wrapped in ginger candy wrappers and hope taped together with denial.

I’m fine. Totally fine.

Except for the part where I still miss Damien.

But hey. I’m vertical, dressed, and technically employed. That counts for something.

I log into my computer, check my emails, and resist the urge to hurl my desk phone into the sun. Everything feels louder today—the clacking of keyboards, the hiss of the espresso machine across the floor, the clicking heels of Brittany as she parades around like she just got promoted to CEO of Gossip.

At least I haven’t run into Damien.

Yet.

I heard someone say he’s out of town for the week. Off to some investor summit or something that requires expensive suits, intimidating stares, and definitely no mention of the girl he got pregnant and then ghosted.

That’s fine by me.

Better than fine.

Perfect, actually.

It gives me a window. A quiet, drama-free exit.

I’ll finish the week. Submit my resignation. Vanish like a badly formatted PowerPoint slide.

No more office tension. No more awkward stares. No more Damien.

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