Chapter 3 Unexpected Discovery
Richard: POV
Two months later, I jolted awake feeling like my insides were revolting.
I stumbled out of bed for the fourteenth morning in a row, barely making it to the bathroom before violently emptying my stomach.
Nothing stayed down anymore—not toast, not crackers, not even fucking water sometimes.
Hunched over the toilet, I rested my forehead against the cool porcelain.
"This is getting ridiculous," I muttered, splashing cold water on my face.
The man in the mirror looked like shit—pale, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes.
My phone buzzed with a text from my handler at Homeland Security.
Great.
I was supposed to be gathering intel on suspicious financial activities at Quinn Cybersecurity, not puking my guts out every morning.
[Will be there. Minor stomach bug.]
I'd tried everything—antacids, ginger ale, even my grandmother's old remedy of saltines and flat Sprite.
Nothing worked.
This wasn't food poisoning; it had gone on too long.
After another day of barely functioning, I finally made an appointment Memorial Hospital.
The doctor ran through a battery of tests.
"Blood work looks normal, Mr. Bloom. No signs of infection or inflammation."
I shook my head in disbelief.
"That can't be right. I've been sick every morning for two weeks."
She smiled patiently.
"Based on your symptoms, I'd suggest this might be stress-related."
I left with zero answers.
Two more days of misery later, I called Dr. Harrison, our family physician.
Dr. Harrison's office was all mahogany paneling and leather chairs.
The man himself hadn't changed in twenty years: silver hair, bow tie, perpetually bemused expression.
"Richard, my boy," he said.
"What seems to be the trouble?"
I recounted my symptoms in detail.
"And this has been going on for how long?"
"About two weeks now. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes smells trigger it. Coffee is the worst—can't even be in the same room with it brewing."
He ran through the standard tests.
"Physically, you appear to be in excellent health."
I groaned in frustration.
"That's what the other doctor said."
Dr. Harrison sat down, his expression thoughtful.
"Tell me about your personal life, Richard. Any significant changes recently?"
"Not really. Work is work."
"New relationship, perhaps?"
I tensed, thinking of that night with Camellia.
"No. Nothing serious."
"Richard," he said gently, "if you were a woman, I'd immediately suspect pregnancy."
I blinked.
"Well, I'm not a woman, so that's not helpful."
"Actually..." Dr. Harrison leaned forward.
"There's a condition called Couvade syndrome. Some men experience pregnancy-like symptoms when their partner is pregnant."
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Are you asking if I got someone pregnant?"
"Have you been intimate with anyone?"
My mind flashed to Camellia—exactly two months ago.
The timeframe fit perfectly.
But we'd discussed this; she'd assured me she would handle contraception.
"That's... that's impossible," I stammered.
'She said she'd handle it.'
I barely made it to my car before grabbing my phone, scrolling to Camellia's number.
"Fuck," I muttered, hitting call.
She answered on the third ring.
"Richard? What do you want?"
"You fucking liar," I hissed.
"What happened to taking contraceptives? What happened to your promise?"
Camellia: POV
I was wrapping up a strategy session when Richard's call came through.
Our algorithm had finally cracked the predictive modeling for retail consumer behavior, and we were on the verge of landing three new major clients.
"That's a wrap, everyone," I said.
"Ethan, can you update the pitch deck with the new data points?"
My COO nodded.
"Already on it. The accuracy improvements are impressive—94.7%."
As the team filtered out, Ethan lingered.
"Hey, want to grab dinner and finish the quarterly projections?"
"That sounds perfect, I'm starv—" My phone rang.
Richard Bloom's name flashed on the screen.
I hadn't spoken to him since that disastrous night two months ago.
"Give me a second," I told Ethan, stepping away to answer.
"Richard? What do you want?"
His voice came through like acid, "You fucking liar. What happened to taking contraceptives? What happened to your promise?"
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb," he snarled.
"I've been sick for two weeks. Throwing up every morning, can't eat, can't function. The doctor says it's some bullshit sympathetic pregnancy thing. Are you pregnant?"
I couldn't breathe.
Two missed periods.
The occasional nausea I'd attributed to stress and irregular meals.
"That's ridiculous," I managed, turning away from Ethan's curious gaze.
"Am I? When was your last period, Camellia?"
I racked my brain.
April? Early May?
It was now July.
"I... I have to go," I said quickly.
"I'll call you back."
Then, under Ethan's worried gaze, I apologized to him, said I had a family emergency, and hurriedly left.
The drive home was a blur.
I stopped at a pharmacy and bought three different pregnancy tests.
In my bathroom, I fumbled with the packaging, following the instructions with trembling hands.
I set the timer and paced.
If I was pregnant, I'd be about eight weeks along.
The night with Richard was the only possibility.
I'd meant to take the morning-after pill, but then the Quinn deal fell through, and we had the crisis with our database, and I just... forgot.
The timer dinged.
Two pink lines.
All three tests showed two pink lines.
"Shit," I whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bathtub.
I called Richard back, my voice hollow.
"You're right. I'm pregnant."
"You promised me," he said, his voice tight with anger.
"I meant to," I admitted.
"I got busy with work and... forgot. But don't worry, this is my problem. I'll take care of it."
"Take care of it how?"
"I'll schedule a termination," I said flatly.
"I have a company to run, Richard. I can't have a baby right now."
There was a long silence.
"Fine," he finally said.
"Just... keep me informed."
"This doesn't concern you anymore. Consider yourself off the hook."
The next morning, I drove to Memorial Hospital in San Francisco.
The doctor confirmed what the home tests had told me: eight weeks pregnant.
"Have you thought about your options?" she asked.
"Yes," I said immediately.
"I want to terminate. My career doesn't allow for a child right now."
She nodded.
She handed me some information papers, which I stuffed into my bag along with my lab results.
In my haste to leave, I collided with someone in the hallway.
My bag fell, spilling its contents—including the pregnancy test results.
"I'm so sorry," the woman said, helping gather my things.
She picked up the lab report and handed it to me.
I froze as our eyes met. Those piercing blue eyes could only belong to a Bloom.
This was Richard's sister, Victoria.
"Thank you," I said stiffly, shoving everything back into my bag.
Victoria's gaze lingered on me thoughtfully. Had she seen the lab report?
"Take care," she said simply, before continuing down the hallway.
I practically ran to my car, heart pounding. My phone rang as I started the engine.
Ethan's name flashed on the screen.
"Cam, you need to get back here now," he said, his voice tight with urgency.
"There's a crisis at the company!"