They spilled out of the club's back exit into the alley, Nancy breathing hard. Sebastian followed, carrying Julian's coat.

Just as they reached the car, a group of men turned the corner.

Nancy froze.

It was Harrison Sterling-Julian's father-and three members of the board. They had likely been at a private cigar meeting nearby.

Harrison stopped. He looked at his son, who was swaying and muttering incoherently. His expression was thunderous.

"Julian?" Harrison barked. "What is the meaning of this?"

The board members exchanged looks. A drunk CEO was bad for stock prices.

Julian groaned. He looked like he was about to vomit.

Nancy reacted on instinct. She whipped off her trench coat and threw it over Julian's head and shoulders, hiding his disheveled state.

She stepped in front of him, blocking their view. She forced a sad, wobbly smile onto her face.

"Oh, Harrison," she said, her voice trembling perfectly. "I'm so glad it's you. Julian... he's so upset."

Harrison frowned. "Upset?"

"It's Fiona," Nancy lied smoothly. "Her nerve pain was terrible tonight. Seeing her suffer... it just broke his heart. He had a few drinks to cope. You know how deeply the Sterlings feel for their friends."

She looked at the board members. "Loyalty is a Sterling trait, isn't it?"

The tension broke. The board members nodded sympathetically. "Poor girl," one muttered. "Good man, Julian."

Harrison's eyes narrowed. He looked at Nancy. He saw the rain-soaked pajamas, the pale face, the protective stance. He knew it was a spin.

"Get him in the car," Harrison said quietly. "Good work, Nancy."

Nancy bundled Julian into the passenger seat. Sebastian stood by the open door. He looked at Nancy with a new expression. Respect.

"That was... impressive," Sebastian muttered. "You lie better than he does."

"I learned from the best," Nancy said, slamming the door.

She drove away.

Ten minutes later, her phone rang through the car's Bluetooth. It was Arthur.

"Harrison told me," the old man's voice rasped.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I handled it."

"You did more than handle it. You saved the morning share price," Arthur said. "Check your personal account tomorrow. Consider it a... wardrobe stipend."

"I don't want your money, Arthur," Nancy said softly.

"I know," Arthur replied. "That's why you're the only one worthy of it."

He hung up.

Nancy looked over at Julian. He was passed out, his head lolling against the window.

Suddenly, he groaned and shifted. His hand flailed out and landed on her thigh.

Nancy flinched, but she didn't move it.

His fingers curled, gripping her leg gently.

"Nancy..." he mumbled in his sleep. Not Fiona. Nancy.

His thumb stroked the fabric of her pants. It was a soft, seeking touch.

Nancy felt a tear slide down her cheek. She focused on the road, the rain blurring the red taillights ahead into long, bloody streaks.

Getting him into the apartment was a wrestling match. Nancy was sweating by the time she dumped him onto the king-sized bed.

She knelt to take off his shoes. Her stomach still ached where she had hit the table, a dull, throbbing reminder of the night's chaos.

She stood up to leave, to get water, to escape.

Julian's hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist.

"Don't," he rasped.

He pulled. Nancy lost her balance. She fell onto the mattress, landing beside him.

He rolled over, pinning her. His body was heavy, hot. He smelled of vodka and rain.

He stared down at her. His eyes were open, glassy but intense.

"You're here," he whispered.

"I'm here," Nancy said, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was terrified he would hurt the baby, but she was also paralyzed by his proximity.

He buried his face in her neck. He inhaled deeply.

"You smell like... home," he mumbled. "Don't be like her. Don't leave."

He was confusing her with Fiona. He had to be.

"Julian, you're drunk."

"No," he groaned. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His leg tangled with hers.

For a moment, Nancy let herself sink into it. The warmth. The weight. This was what she had wanted for three years. To be held.

Then, a sound cut through the room.

Ring. Ring.

It was a specific ringtone. A harp melody. Fiona.

Julian stiffened. His hand fumbled for his pocket.

Nancy reached it first. She pulled the phone out. The screen lit up the dark room: Fiona Q.

She pressed answer. She didn't speak. She held the phone out.

"Julian?" Fiona's voice was sugary sweet, dripping with fake vulnerability. "Are you awake? My legs hurt so bad. The storm makes it worse. Can you come rub them?"

Julian froze. He looked at the phone. Then he looked at Nancy.

He saw the exhaustion in Nancy's eyes. He saw the wet hair. He felt her body beneath his.

Something shifted in his drunken haze. A flash of clarity.

He reached out. He took the phone from Nancy's hand.

And he pressed the red button. End call.

He tossed the phone onto the floor.

Nancy stared at him, shocked. "You hung up on her."

"I'm tired," Julian muttered. He rolled off her, collapsing onto his back. "Just... turn off the light."

Nancy lay there for a minute, listening to his breathing even out into sleep.

She got up and went to the guest room. She didn't sleep.

The next morning, she woke up scratching.

She went to the mirror and gasped.

The concealer had worn off. The allergic reaction had rebounded with a vengeance. Her neck, chest, and arms were covered in angry, red, raised welts. Her face was swollen.

The door opened.

Julian stood there, holding a cup of coffee. He looked hungover, but when he saw her, the coffee cup rattled in the saucer.

"My God," he said. He crossed the room in two strides. "Nancy? Your face."

"It's nothing," she said, turning away.

He grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "This isn't nothing. You're breaking out."

He pulled out his phone.

"I'm calling Dr. Walker. Now."

Dr. Walker arrived in twenty minutes. He was a silver-haired man who had treated the Sterling family for decades.

Julian paced the living room while Walker examined Nancy on the sofa.

"It looks like a severe allergic reaction," Walker said, peering through his spectacles. "Did you eat anything unusual?"

Nancy opened her mouth to lie.

"The cake," Julian interrupted. He stopped pacing. He looked at Nancy with sudden realization. "You ate that cake yesterday. The one you made."

"It had hazelnuts in it," Julian said, his voice rising. "You're allergic to hazelnuts. Why the hell would you eat it?"

Nancy looked down at her hands. "I didn't think... I just wanted a taste."

"You could have died!" Julian yelled. He looked terrified.

Dr. Walker opened his medical bag. He pulled out a syringe and a vial.

"I need to administer a corticosteroid injection immediately to bring down the swelling," Walker said. "And an antihistamine."

Nancy's eyes widened. Corticosteroids. High dose. Dangerous for the first trimester.

"No!" She recoiled, curling her legs up. "No needles."

"Nancy, stop acting like a child," Julian snapped. "You need the shot."

"I can't!" Nancy cried. "I... I have a stomach bug too. I've been throwing up. I'm afraid the medicine will make it worse."

"That makes no sense," Julian argued. He opened his mouth to argue further, but his phone buzzed with an urgent notification from the London office, momentarily distracting him.

Nancy seized the moment. She lunged forward and grabbed Dr. Walker's wrist.

She looked into the doctor's eyes, her gaze intense and pleading. She put her hand protectively over her flat stomach, pressing down slightly.

"I cannot take the steroid," she whispered, her voice desperate. "It's not safe for my... condition. Please. You know what I mean."

Dr. Walker paused. He looked at her hand on her stomach. He looked at the desperation in her eyes. He was a smart man, and he knew Arthur Sterling was desperate for a great-grandchild. He understood instantly.

He slowly lowered the syringe.

Julian turned back around, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Is it done?"

Dr. Walker cleared his throat. He put the needle away.

"Actually, Mr. Sterling," Walker said smoothly. "Given her description of the vomiting... I suspect she might have a viral gastroenteritis complicating the allergy. The stomach flu. A heavy steroid might suppress her immune system too much right now."

Nancy let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"So what do we do?" Julian demanded.

"Topical treatment," Walker said. He pulled out a tube of ointment. "This is a safe, mild cortisone cream. It will take longer, but it won't aggravate the virus."

He wrote a prescription. He packed his bag.

"Rest," Walker said to Nancy, giving her a significant look. "Hydrate. And come see me in my office next week for a... follow-up on the virus."

After the doctor left, Julian stood by the table, staring at the tube of cream.

"You are unbelievable," he said. "You'd rather suffer for days than take a shot? Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"I'm not trying to do anything," Nancy said.

"Fine." Julian grabbed the tube. "Turn around."

"I can do it myself."

"It's all over your back, Nancy. You can't reach it. Turn around."

Nancy hesitated. Then she slowly turned her back to him. She pulled her silk pajama top down, exposing her shoulders and spine.

The red welts were angry against her pale skin.

She heard Julian's sharp intake of breath. His anger seemed to evaporate, replaced by a heavy silence.

She felt the mattress dip as he sat behind her.

Then, she felt his fingertips.

The cream was cold, but his fingers were hot. He touched her skin with a gentleness that made her want to weep.