By the time Abby returned to the office on Monday morning, the nausea had lessened, replaced by a new, more terrifying reality: her clothes were tight. Not just uncomfortable, but noticeably constrained. The first trimester bloat and the subtle growth of the fetus had finally rendered her professional armor obsolete.
She stood in front of her mirror at home, desperately trying to force the zipper of her most concealing black pencil skirt. The material strained, and the small hook-and-eye clasp at the top simply refused to meet. It was a stark, physical deadline. She had maybe two weeks—three at most—before she would have to admit the truth to her tailor, or worse, to the sharp eyes of Liam Sterling.
She settled on a loose, black A-line dress—a rarity in her wardrobe—and paired it with a structured blazer, hoping the heavy material would drape well.
The first person she saw when she stepped off the elevator on the 50th floor was Liam. He was standing by the reception area, talking to a maintenance worker, looking impeccably sharp in a charcoal suit. He immediately stopped talking and turned his full attention to her.
Abby felt the familiar, unnerving heat of his scrutiny. She walked straight to her desk, avoiding eye contact, hoping to blend into the background.
"Abby," he called out. She stopped, turning to face him.
He walked toward her, his expression unreadable. She braced herself for a professional critique, or perhaps a comment on her unusual dress.
He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly. His green eyes dropped, focusing intently on her chest. Specifically, on the lapel of her blazer.
Abby felt her throat constrict. Had a button popped? Was the blazer straining? Was this the moment he saw the curve beneath the fabric?
Liam reached out a hand, his movements slow and deliberate. His fingers, long and strong, lightly brushed against the fabric of her dress, just beneath her collarbone. He paused, his gaze fixed on the spot.
"You're missing a button, Abby," he murmured, his voice low, intimate, and entirely focused on the mundane detail. "Your tailor did a rushed job. It's an essential detail; you need to be flawless."
He withdrew his hand, leaving a lingering warmth on her skin. He had seen the flaw in the clothing, not the flaw in the body.
"I'll have it replaced immediately, Mr. Sterling," she managed, her voice slightly breathless from the shock of his proximity and the relief.
"Good," he said, his eyes finally meeting hers. "Now, come into my office. We need to debrief the Han merger closure. We won't be interrupted."
She walked toward his office, her mind reeling. The proximity had been terrifying, yet the moment of near-discovery had forced them into a bubble of shared intensity. The physical fact of her pregnancy was no longer a theoretical problem; it was a button that could pop at any moment. She had survived this touch, this encounter, but she knew the clock was ticking. She needed a strategy to disappear before the clothes failed her entirely.