Page 3 of If the Ring Fits

Bring it on.

The market bell rings and the trading floor erupts into its usual frenzy. Lights flash, phones ring off the hook, and a hundred conversations begin at once. I roll up my sleeves and dive right in.

As Chief Investment Officer, my day is a whirlwind of monitoring markets, adjusting positions, meeting with analysts, and strategizing. I’m glued to my Bloomberg terminal, watching the numbers dance across the screen. One minute the Dow is up, the next it’s down. It’s like trying to tame a wild beast.

“Adrian, Vanguard is on line two,” my secretary, Wendy, calls out. “They have questions about that pharma stock.”

I nod and pick up the phone, ready to explain our bull case and PE ratios. It’s one call after another with high-profileclients. Between discussions of alpha, beta, short interest, and EBITDA, I barely have a moment to breathe. But I thrive on the rush, on the rapid-fire pace.

I stop only when my stomach starts growling like a caged lion. It’s two thirty already and I forgot to eat lunch. I ask Wendy to put in my usual order at the sushi place downstairs.

I eat at my desk, eyes still glued to the terminal. The market waits for no one.

I’m just polishing off the last salmon skin roll when Wendy appears in my doorway, looking tense.

“Mr. Fulton wants to see you in his office. Right now,” she says grimly.

My chopsticks freeze in midair as an uneasy feeling slithers up my neck. In all my years here, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been called to the CEO’s office without notice. It’s never been good news. And I don’t like surprises.

3

ROWENA

I dart through the bustling New York sidewalks, my flats slapping against the concrete as I dodge businessmen engrossed in their cell phones. The late spring sun beats down on me, making me break a sweat despite my lightweight blouse. Normally, I’d relish the warm glow on my face, but today a sickening nausea swirls in my gut, casting a shadow over everything.

“Excuse me, sorry,” I wheeze as I weave through the crowd, glancing at my watch. Damn, I’m going to be so late getting back to the office. I had to squeeze this doctor’s appointment into my measly forty-five-minute lunch break, but the doctor was running fifteen minutes behind, so now I’m half an hour over. Ugh, it’s already past two thirty; my boss, Brian, will get on my case again, the tyrant.

But that’s the least of my problems. My mind reels, still processing the news that knocked the wind out of me ten minutes ago: I’m pregnant. Seven weeks along. The father is my dirtbag ex, Liam, who I mustered the courage to dump a month and a half ago—guess I should’ve been a week faster.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

How did I not notice the signs? My bra has felt like a vise lately, but I chalked that up to PMS. The random puking I blamed on spoiled takeout. As for missing my period, well, that’s not abnormal for me. My cycle is about as regular as the G train.

I press a hand to my still-flat stomach and feel a pang of… what? Regret? Panic? Irrational joy? Dizziness washes over me and I’m not sure if it’s the pregnancy hormones or the enormity of the situation making me woozy. Single and knocked up was not in my thirty-before-thirty plan.

Gosh, I’ll have to tell Liam. The manipulative jerk will probably see this as his chance to worm his way back into my life—or run for the hills never to be seen again, which, ironically, would be the preferred outcome. At the thought of facing him, a revulsion so visceral emanates through me, and I almost double over. I’m going to be sick right here on Broadway.

Angry horns blare as I duck out of the snarled traffic, cutting it close at a crosswalk. The acrid smell of exhaust hits my nostrils, and my stomach recoils. I suppress a gag against the bile rising in my throat, again dubious if it is morning sickness or just pure dread making me queasy.

I exhale slowly, trying to quell my spiraling thoughts as I hurry down the block to my office building. One crisis at a time, Rowena. First, grovel to Brian and pray he’s in a merciful mood. Then survive the rest of the day at work. And after that? Collapse into bed with a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk. Wrap my head around the news that there’s a tiny person growing inside me. And make a plan.

As I step into the air-conditioned lobby of the office tower where I work as a junior software engineer, I beg my mind to shift into problem-solving mode. I’m a coder, after all—debuggingis my specialty. But this glitch in my life’s program feels impossible to untangle.

I join the throng of people waiting for the elevators. The up button is circled by a red light, signaling the call has already been made, but I poke it again and tap my foot as I follow the progress of numbers slowly descending on the overhead screen, willing the doors to open faster.Come on, come on.

The more I stand here, unmoving, the more questions pile in my head. How am I going to manage a baby on my own? My boss isn’t exactly warm-hearted; he’ll give me two weeks of paid maternity leave at best. And daycare costs more than my rent in this city. Maybe I could work from home for a while? That could ensure survival, but what about my career? I’m working my butt off to establish myself in a male-dominated field. How will having a kid impact my ability to keep pushing?

The elevator dings and I wedge in among briefcases and power ties, my bag clutched to my churning stomach. As we ascend, I take long, calming inhales, the effort futile when trapped in a metal box thick with conflicting colognes. I just need to make it to the seventeenth floor without puking.

Taking in my reflection in the mirrored walls—looking pale and shell-shocked—I’d say my chances of not retching on the suits are fifty-fifty.

Think of something else.

I close my eyes, trying to picture myself as a mom. All I can conjure is an image of me with spit-up on my shirt, dark circles under my eyes, and code scrolling endlessly on my laptop while a baby wails in the background.

Unstoppable tears carve paths down my face. I feel lost, like I’m stuck in a maze with no exit in sight. I wish I could call my mom for advice, but I’m not ready to confess to my parentsthe colossal mess I’m in, how spectacularly I’ve botched my life.

The elevator opens on my floor and I press through the throng of bodies to get out. I remove my black-rimmed glasses, wiping the tears from my cheeks and pasting on a neutral expression before I make my way to my desk. As I cross the open-space office, I avoid eye contact with my coworkers, eager to hide in my cubicle.

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