Page 92 of If the Ring Fits

And yet, there’s that clause. The one stating I’d have to move to California, 6,000 miles away from everything I know and love. Away from Adrian.

I think back to our conversation last week, when I first brought up the Californian offer. Adrian, ever the pragmatist, methodically laid out the pros and cons, his voice steady and measured.

“The reach and financial backing they guarantee is unparalleled,” he said, his eyes serious as they skimmed the pages. “It’s an incredible opportunity.”

I’d waited, my heart rug-burned, for him to say more. To tell me he didn’t want me to go. That he couldn’t imagine building a life with me so far away. But he said nothing. He just swapped folders, continuing his analysis of pros and cons without factoring any emotion into it. “But MC Toys clearly believes in your vision. They’d give you the creative control to make this console shine, and you wouldn’t be just another number on a spreadsheet.”

He laid out the facts, giving me no other input, making it clear it’s my decision. That I should do what’s best for me andthe baby. But what is that?

The doubts echo in my mind as I absently rub my belly, feeling a flitter of movement within. My vision glistens as a wave of fierce adoration swells in my chest. I never knew it was possible to love someone so completely before they’ve even entered the world. In a little over a week, we’ll have a tiny new person depending on us. The thought of navigating those first precious months alone in California sends a chill scratching down my spine. But do I want to stay in New York just because of Adrian, or because it’s the best thing forme?

I glance at the clock, my heart rate spiking with the conviction that I need to decide. Today. Before this baby makes their grand entrance and turns our world upside down in the most wonderful way.

I pick up the two folders, not really needing to read the fine print. By now, I know both proposals almost by heart. I close my eyes and hug one stack of papers to my chest, leaving the other down on the desk.

With trembling fingers, I pick up my phone and dial the familiar number. It rings once, twice, three times.

“Hello?”

“Hi, yes, this is Rowena Taylor,” I say, my voice sounding far steadier than I feel. “I’m calling to let you know I’ve made a decision regarding your offer…”

As I relay my choice, a sense of peace washes over me, intermingled with a thrill of excitement. This is it. The start of a new chapter. They send me a virtual contract to sign, and I do it right away.

As I save the signed contract on my laptop, a sudden, sharp pain lances through my belly, knocking the wind out of me. Initially, I dismiss it as another bout of Braxton Hicks contractions—I’ve been having a few in the past two weeks, but theintensity catches me off guard. Slowly, I walk to the living room and ease myself onto the couch, hoping a change in position will provide some relief.

But the pain only surges, each wave more powerful than the last. I fumble for my phone, pulling up my pregnancy app with shaking hands. My due date is still ten days away, but as I start timing the contractions, a sinking realization takes hold.

Five minutes apart. Lasting nearly a minute each time.

This isn’t a false alarm.

Excitement wars with trepidation as I struggle to my feet, one hand braced against the base of my spine. I need to get to the hospital. I need Adrian.

I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course, he’s in a meeting with some high-powered client, his phone off. I leave a rambling message, my words punctuated by stuttering gasps as another contraction seizes me.

“Adrian, it’s me. I think… I think the baby’s coming. I’m heading to the hospital now. Please, please call me back as soon as you can.”

Next, I dial his secretary, relaying the same message and trying not to let the rising panic bleed into my voice. She assures me she’ll track him down, and I thank her profusely before ending the call.

My final lifeline is Sam, Adrian’s unflappable driver. He answers on the first ring.

“Sam, I need you to take me to the hospital. I think I’m in labor.”

“I’ll be right there, Miss Rowena.”

I smile, thinking how I never got him to drop the Miss.

True to his word, Sam appears at the penthouse door in record time, his normally stoic face creased with concern. He grabs my overnight bag and helps me to the elevator, hisreassuring arms a welcome clutch as another contraction nearly buckles my knees.

The elevator descends at an agonizing slow pace, each jolt sending a fresh wave of agony radiating through my body. I try to focus on my breathing—using the pain management techniques they taught in birthing class—and on the new person I’m about to meet, but all I can think is how desperately I need Adrian by my side.

As the doors slide open and we step into the lobby, a fierce determination settles over me, tempering the chaos of my thoughts. I’m about to become a mother and I’m going to rock at child-birthing.

41

ADRIAN

As I settle back into my chair in the sleek meeting room at Fulton, the glass and steel table gleams under the soft, ambient lighting, complementing the panoramic view of the New York skyline.

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