Sophia
The nausea hits around nine in the morning, regular as clockwork, which makes hiding it approximately as easy as smuggling a horse through a doggie door. I'm in the middle of a budget meeting with Lou when my stomach does that particular flip that means I've got maybe thirty seconds before everything I ate for breakfast makes a reappearance.
"Bathroom." I'm already moving, hand clamped over my mouth. "Be right back."
Lou's eyes track me with suspicion that suggests she's figured it out, but bless her, she doesn't say anything. Just shuffles papers and pretends intense interest in supply chain logistics while I bolt down the hallway.
I make it to the toilet with seconds to spare, retching up what feels like my entire digestive system. Bertha's tea helps, but not enough. Wolf
