The rooftop tour was supposed to be routine. Just a photo op, a press handshake, a meaningless ribbon-cutting preview.
Then the nausea hit like a sledgehammer.
I barely made it to a planter before retching.
People gasped. Cameras snapped. Someone whispered, “Is she sick or pregnant?"
Andrew appeared out of nowhere, his hand on my back before I could wave him off.
“Easy," he murmured. “Breathe."
I straightened, cheeks flaming. “You don't have to—"
“I'm not doing this for them," he snapped. Then, quieter: “Where the hell is the guy who left you like this?"
I laughed through the nausea. Bitter. Breathless.
“You keep saying that like you aren't him."
He froze. But not the way I expected. Not in horror. In... something closer to realization.
Then he stepped back.
Didn't ask question
