Abby was pulled from a much-needed nap by a sharp, insistent knock on her apartment door. She checked the peephole cautiously. Standing there was a muscular, imposing man in a black suit definitely not a delivery person, but someone who looked like he belonged on the executive floor of Sterling Holdings.
She didn't open the door. She reached for her phone and quickly dialed the encrypted number Liam had given her.
He answered instantly, on the first ring. "Sterling." His voice was low and tense.
"Mr. Sterling, there is a man at my door," Abby whispered, her adrenaline spiking. "He is in a suit, not a uniform. He's persistent. Your message said not to open the door."
A beat of silence. "He's a security operative. Open the door, Abby. He has a package, and he won't leave until you take it."
Abby slowly unlocked the multiple deadbolts and pulled the door open, keeping the security chain in place. The man was impeccably professional.
"Ms. Brooks, apologies for the intrusion. This is a personal delivery from Mr. Sterling. He insisted on immediate transfer." The operative handed her a large, insulated box and retreated without another word.
Abby closed the door, her hands shaking slightly. She carried the heavy box to the kitchen counter and opened it. It was filled with food specifically, a week's worth of meticulously prepared, plain, nourishing meals: broiled fish, steamed vegetables, and several containers of mild, soothing broths.
Attached was another handwritten note from Liam, this time on high-quality stationery, devoid of corporate symbols.
Abby,
The last thing you need right now is to worry about nourishment. Your health is the highest priority for the next two days. My chef prepared these meals. They are bland, nutritious, and require no effort. Eat them all. I will have them replaced on Monday. This is not a request. This is part of the required maintenance on the company's most valuable asset.
L.S.
Abby stared at the food, the note, and the utter, overwhelming control this man had exerted over her life. She was furious. He had invaded her personal space, ignored her privacy, and dictated her menu, all under the guise of corporate necessity. Required maintenance. She was a machine to him, a highly functional robot he was simply refueling.
Yet, beneath the anger was a startling vulnerability. She hadn't eaten a full, hot meal in days due to the nausea, surviving on crackers and ginger ale. The sight of the plain, perfectly prepared food made her eyes well up with tears. It was an act of profound, protective care, even if it was framed as a business decision.
She picked up a container of chicken broth. It was still warm. The aroma was neutral and comforting. She took a tentative sip, and the warmth spread through her stomach, easing the persistent clench of nausea.
She walked back to her sofa and opened the encrypted text thread. She hesitated, wanting to lash out at his controlling behavior, but she settled for a simple, honest response.
Text: The food is appreciated, Mr. Sterling. Thank you.
The reply was instantaneous, almost brutal in its brevity.
Text: Good. Eat.
She put the phone down, realizing the terrible, complicated truth: the boss who was the father of her baby was simultaneously infuriating her with his dominance and caring for her body in a way no one else in her solitary life ever had. The meals were a constant reminder of his presence, his awareness, and his strange, unwanted protection.