Page 99 of His Dark Vendetta

ChapterTwenty-Nine

Siobhán

“Thank you for making the first week of the summer season a success.” I met the eyes of every department head at the conference table. “Keep up the good work.” I clasped my hands and fought like hell to maintain a smile as a fresh wave of nausea crashed into me like a tsunami. “Dismissed.” I choked out the word, lucky my guts didn’t follow behind it.

The team rose from their seats, but only a few made their way to the door. The rest took their time, chatting and checking their phones.

Sweat beaded my forehead. I dabbed the moisture with a tissue I had balled in my pocket.Pull it together, Siobhán.I’d dealt with stomach and digestive issues my entire life. Just another day on the job.

“Josh. Tammy,” I said, pushing through my discomfort. I rounded the conference table to meet them at the door. “I went over your proposal for the Fourth of July event on the terraces. I have a few questions about expected volume and the catering you have planned.”

My stomach turned over, and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to heave into Josh’s coffee mug. Maybe now was not the time to talk about the Fourth.

I walked around them and through the door; they dutifully followed me into the hallway. “Let’s get together Monday and go through the plans, yeah?”

“No problem, Ms. Connelly,” Tammy said.

“Fabulous. Ten a.m. My office.”

“See you then,” Josh replied.

They walked down the hall toward the lobby, and as soon as they rounded the corner, I dashed into the bathroom, flung open the door to the accessible stall, and fell to my knees over the toilet, throwing up water and bile and the small amount of oatmeal I’d choked down that morning. Over and over, I heaved until there was nothing left. I slumped against the tiled wall, my hand pressed to my stomach and my breath coming in shallow pants.

I’d had more than my fair share of stomach issues over the years, including bad bouts of nausea when I was stressed and my stomach pumped out too much acid, but this was ridiculous. After almost a week, I’d be lucky if I could make it through the rest of the day without falling asleep at my desk. Maybe I had the flu. I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead, but I wasn’t warm, just clammy.

My stomach finally settled, and I pushed myself off the bathroom floor. I splashed cold water on my face and rinsed my mouth. I dabbed at the water, careful not to smudge my makeup, then leaned against the counter.

I was pale. Paler than usual. And my eyes were glassy. But aside from the lack of color and nausea…

Annoyed, I left the bathroom and walked down the hall and across the lobby to where the department offices occupied the east wing of the first floor. I sat behind my desk and grabbed my water bottle. The ice water coated my mouth and soothed my throat. It had to be stress. Probably from internalizing so much bullshit over the past few months. My stomach finally decided it had enough. Vesuvio, the whole ordeal with Luca, and now Da.

He took a turn for the worse the Monday after Luca dropped me off at my house. I don’t think any of us wanted to admit how far the dementia had advanced until that week. Mam called in a panic at five in the morning—Da was missing. He’d gotten up in the middle of the night, dressed himself in coveralls he hadn’t worn in years, and “gone to work.” The cameras at the shop told us he unlocked the doors around three a.m. Rory found him at six, standing over his old work bench staring at a set of tools and muttering something about a 1980 Ford Mustang.

We couldn’t put it off any longer. No matter how much Mam protested, Da needed around-the-clock care. For the past month, I spent all my free time moving Da into an assisted-living facility and comforting Mam. She struggled getting used to a new normal that didn’t include caring for her husband in the home they’d lived in for forty-five years.

All that on top of managing Boston’s most exclusive resort and spa. After having my heart ripped out of my chest. Again.

I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh. Definitely too much stress. My insides had always been the gift from hell that kept on giving, but if the nausea continued one more day, I needed to visit my gastroenterologist.

I opened my calendar to check my schedule for the rest of the day. No more meetings. Just a blissfully open afternoon to close out a long work week. Thank God. Although, I would have gladly rescheduled that big department meeting to the afternoon when my stomach settled.

Wait.

I sat back in my chair and drummed my nails against the armrest, thinking back over the past few days. Mornings had been miserable, each day worse than the last, but as soon as lunchtime approached and I managed to choke down some food, I felt mostly fine.

Every time I’d thrown up over the past week, it had been in the morning. In fact, late last night, I wolfed down a huge—for me—peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Wonder Bread, my go to snack anytime I needed to pack in serious calories. No problems.

My stomach flipped but not from the nausea.

I opened the health app on my cell phone.

Current Cycle (48 Days)

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

The cell phone slipped from my hand and landed on my desk. I grabbed my water bottle and drank, trying not to panic. I forgot to record it, that’s all. I did that sometimes. It must have slipped my mind with all the kidnapping and heartbreak and parental care. Besides, I was on the shot. I’d been on the shot for ten years. Every three months for?—

Oh, God.

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