Page 42 of The Fake Affair

Two days stretch into four.

The Singapore situation is “more complex than anticipated,” according to Logan’s increasingly brief texts. I get it—he’s juggling a corporate firestorm across time zones. But after everything that happened between us, I find myself pacing through the apartment like it might offer answers the walls won’t say out loud.

I’m mid-scroll through an acquisition report with him on call.

“So, how is everything otherwise?” he asks. I'm about to answer when my phone buzzes with a text.

Still coming this weekend?

I blink.Shit.I’d completely forgotten I promised to visit. I start typing a reply when another message follows.

Everything okay?

Before I can answer, a sharp wave of nausea hits. I toss off my Airpods, lurch off the couch, barely making it to the bathroom in time. My knees hit tile and I grip the sink for balance, the edge biting into my palms as I heave.

Must have been something I ate last night at dinner.

“Bella?” Logan’s voice echoes faintly through my Airpods, now lying discarded on the sofa. I’d forgotten we were still on a call, and scramble to put them back in my ears. “You still there?”

I spit, rinse my mouth, and try to sound normal. “Yeah, sorry. Ate something that didn't taste right. What were you saying about the shareholders?”

He pauses. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” I lie, pressing a damp towel to my forehead. “Focus on your meetings. I’ve got everything handled here.”

“You need to rest, Bella. I’m hanging up, but I’ll send some food over. Eat, and get to bed.” I’m in no mood to argue, so I nod gratefully and hang up. Just a second later, my phone buzzes once more and this time it’s Mom calling. Stifling a groan, I answer.

“You didn’t answer my texts.”

Damn it.“I meant to. Sorry. Work’s been chaotic. Logan’s in Singapore dealing with—” I falter as another wave of dizziness rolls in.

“Bella,” she says, and I hear the shift in her tone. The one she used when I was little and tried to pretend a fever was nothing. “What’s going on?”

I squint at nothing in particular, as if that will make the throbbing between my eyebrows stop. “Nothing. I probably skipped lunch.”

A pause. Then, softer: “You’re still not sleeping well, are you?”

I let out a breath. “Not really.”

“You’ve always pushed through things. Ever since you were a kid, trying to carry too much by yourself. You remember that summer recital? You had strep throat and still went onstage like it was Broadway.”

I smile faintly. “I also passed out backstage.”

“And your father nearly broke a toe trying to run through the curtain to catch you.”

The mention of him still hits like a stone in the chest. “He would’ve made a dramatic scene of it.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “He always said you were the toughest person he knew. But even strong girls have to sit down sometimes, Bella.”

“I know.” My voice softens. “I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” My heart feels heavy when I hang up. Logan sends over a pizza, and it helps a bit, but two slices in, the nausea returns and I can’t eat a bite more. Sensibility takes over and I go to bed.

The next morning, the smell of coffee—usually the one thing that coaxes me out of bed—makes my stomach churn. I gag and push the mug away. Try to ignore the twisting unease in my gut as I power through back-to-back meetings.

Then a message comes through.

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