Page 152 of Sexting the Boss

A strange roll in my belly.

I sit up straighter, blinking. Huh. That was?—

Another twist.

Okay. Okay, no big deal. Maybe I just ate too fast. Maybe truffle oil is cursed. Maybe I was punished for putting ketchup on a slice earlier, I don’t know.

I try breathing through my nose, but my mouth is already watering in that horrible way that screamsyou have ten seconds to get to a toilet.

“Oh God?—”

I fling the blankets off and half sprint, half lurch toward the bathroom. The floor tilts slightly under my feet, or maybe that’s just me being overly dramatic. My palms slam against the sink as I gag once?—

Then twice?—

Then all of it comes up.

So. Much. Pizza.

I clutch the edge of the counter, eyes watering, chest heaving as I stare at my pale, stunned reflection.

I slump onto the cool bathroom floor, back against the wall, one hand gripping my stomach like it might stop the nausea from rolling back in. My mouth still tastes vaguely like tomato sauce.

I grab a hand towel and blot the sweat off my forehead, then crawl to the sink and sip water straight from my cupped palm like a dehydrated woodland creature.

Food poisoning. Has to be.

Maybe next time I’ll ask for something normal. Like ramen. Or plain toast. Or air.

Still, the nagging sensation in my chest doesn’t go away.

Maybe it’s just stress. I’m in a heavily guarded estate with a man who alternates between kissing me breathless and going full Bratva warlord. That’ll mess with anyone’s system.

And Bratva? I’m yet to wrap my head around the fact that he’s part of organized crime. But strangely enough, it doesn’t scare me. Is something wrong with me? Probably.

I nod at myself in the mirror. “Get it together, Caldwell.”

But even as I walk back to the bed and climb under the covers with shaky limbs, the little voice in my head is back.

What if it’s not food poisoning?

I shove it down. Nope. Truffle oil.

Definitely the truffle oil.

I don’t sleep much.

Still, I manage to drag myself out of bed, throw on a hoodie that definitely isn’t mine—thanks, Damien—and make my way down to breakfast, stomach a little uncertain but stable.

Ekaterina is already at the table when I get there, sipping something from a porcelain cup that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She greets me like I’m her actual child and insists I try “just a little toast,” which I do, mostly so she won’t look at me with those warm mom eyes.

Damien is nowhere to be seen. Not in the hallway. Not storming through the dining room with broody mafia energy. Not lurking behind a newspaper.

Honestly, part of me is relieved. I’m still mad at him for disappearing that night without saying a word, after I told him I suspected Nina.

Since then, I’ve slept in his bed. He’s been attentive at night, and distant during the day.

I manage to survive breakfast, thank Ekaterina for the tea, and retreat back to the bedroom.

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