After the beginning half of this week at work, I was ready to lock myself in my hotel room and eat chocolate until the cows came home.

Not that I could eat, what with the constant nausea. Hiding my morning vomit sessions from my secretary was getting difficult. The other morning I had to lie and say I’d forgotten to brush my teeth when she caught me swigging mouthwash into a water bottle.

But other than the morning sickness, the pregnancy was fine. Fine, in that I tried not to think about it. The first part of my denial was because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. I’d been in happier times and lost babies, so why wouldn’t it happen when my life was already in shambles?

And the second part was because … well, my life was in shambles. Not only was divorce a horrible smudge on my family’s reputation, but what was I going to do having a baby as a single woman? It simply wasn’t done in our circles. I would be a pariah … and I knew that my mother and father would react badly.

So … I was tabling the issue for now. I still had another month before it was acceptable to announce it publicly, and if I was lucky, with my petite frame, I had maybe three or four before I really started showing.

Right now, I could only focus on one huge life move at a time. And at this point, that was getting divorced coupled with taking my rightful place in the company.

“Come in, Imogen,” my father bellows from his office.

Unfortunately, that chocolate and hotel bed will have to wait. Monday through Thursday of this week, I’ve been at Weston headquarters from six a.m. to nine p.m., and it’s bordering on ten tonight. I’ve always been a hard worker here, but to show my father that I’m ready for that next step, I know it’s going to take all of the energy within me.

Even if it means running myself ragged.

“Thanks for meeting with me. I wanted to run some numbers past you in terms of the budget for hiring more employees on the marketing team. Sandra came to me and said she needs at least three more people—”

“That is day-to-day agenda, and you can clear it with your brother. He’s the CFO after all. I’m big picture, or do you forget how this company works?” His voice is cutting.

I nod and make a note to ask Alfie about allocating some money to make the hires.

“That is not why I called you in here. You’re sufficient at your job, Imogen, that’s never been the question. The question is, can you uphold this family and company’s image to a superior level? And right now, I’d say that you cannot.”

I bite my tongue to keep my mouth from falling open even though I’m in shock. I’ve been killing myself to do just what he accuses me of not doing, but it wouldn’t be wise to react in any way. The biggest expression of being upper class is simply not to express anything.

“I apologize if my behavior is not up to your standard. What can I do to improve it?”

I know that someone with an outsider’s perspective will look at this situation as if I’m a doormat. They would say that I’m weak and falling in line. But really, I just know that I have to play by the rules in order to get what I want. This position, this portion of the company … it’s my birthright. There may be some hoops to jump through in order to get it, but I was trained for those hoops. I know what to say and how to dress and I know how my family will view me. It may not be your idea of freedom or independence, but it’s the only life I know. And with my marriage imploding, these are the only lifelines I know.

“I’ve gotten reports, and questions, about why you’re paying for a room at the Dartmore. So not only are you sullying our family name with your divorce from that … that townie, but now you’re creating a record of your spectacle. There are paper traces, Imogen, proof of your troubles. What is the first rule about being a Weston?”

His voice has risen a fraction in its octave, and I know from experience that this is my father’s way of yelling. “I-I didn’t …”

“Don’t stutter, Imogen, it’s not becoming. And of course you didn’t. Yet again, your judgment fails you.”

I straighten my shoulders, determined not to break down. “I will move my things today, into a wing at the compound. I apologize.”

The closest thing to a smirk I’ve ever seen on my father’s face flits across his mouth. “Oh no, you won’t. You are going to move back into your marital home, at least until I can smooth this over and make the paper traces go away. The annual Weston company conference is happening in a month, and we need you to appear happily in love while it goes on. You will live with that lowlife you married. You made your bed, now lie in it.”

He’s serving me a dose of my own medicine, shoving it down my throat until I choke on the irony of it.

“I …” I stop myself before I say the word can’t.

Moving back into the house with Theo will … it will shatter me. It would be like walking over needles if just the divorce was the only thing between us. But with the baby … how the hell am I supposed to hide that?

But I have no choice. It’s this or give it all up. What will I do with a baby on the way, no job, no husband and the risk of losing my family’s money? I can’t have it all ripped away, no matter how misogynistic my family’s values are.

“Yes, sir.”

Two days later, I walk back into the house that I’d made a home with my husband, once upon a time.

Our wedding picture mocks me, the genuine smiles on our faces literally crushing my heart.

“I’ll take the guest room.”

His voice, that deep, rough baritone, startles me, and it takes me a minute to move past the confusion of why. Of course Theo is here … this is his house, too. I just … seeing him here, in this context of our marriage falling apart, it’s strange.

I turn, my bag in hand, to see him standing in the middle of our living room, watching me. My nipples harden in the cups of my bra, and my spine becomes slick with sweat.

Woah.

Those pregnancy books weren’t kidding about double the blood and hormones pumping through your body. Theo is barefoot in dark jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt from some recreational sports league he used to play in. He’s effortlessly sexy, not one of those men who wears tight shirts and gels his hair in a just so way that makes you think he’s done nothing to primp. No … Theo actually does nothing, besides maybe trim his beard every other week. That’s what made him so drop dead … hunky. There was no other word for it, he was just manly and raw and unrefined in his attractiveness.

His eyes flare as he realizes I’m checking him out. I cough, trying to collect myself.

“That won’t be necessary. You’re already in there, and my things are in bags. I’ll take the guest room.” I feel like a stranger in my own home.

“You like the light in our bathroom better.”

Each of us takes a sharp lungful when he drops the word our. “It’s fine, Theo. I’ll take the guest room.”

He takes my answer as me being flippant. “I don’t like this anymore than you do. Your father is goading me, and we both know it. He’s won, and he’s waving the flag in my face.”

“Can we please not have this fight again?” I sigh, too tired for this.

No, really … these days, if I’m not eating, I’m sleeping. My body is exhausted, living for two.

“What fight? The one where you sink to the level of your debasing family? That you let your father dictate your entire life, that you’re ruled by their money? You know, Immy, if you just gave this all up … maybe you could be happy.”

His lashing out takes me by surprise, and my typically cool head and non-confrontational attitude evaporates.

“Why do you even care, Theo? You don’t have to deal with them anymore, or what you consider my weakness to stay loyal to my family. You want me gone just as much as I want to leave. So drop it and let’s get this over with.”

I notice that his hands have balled into fists, and the muscle in his jaw tics under the dark beard shadowing his cheeks.

“You’re right, I don’t care. It’s just pathetic watching you grovel at their feet. But what did I expect? You always were more dedicated to them than you ever were to me.”

His words are like a slap, harsh and stinging across my face.

My estranged husband doesn’t even stay to see my reaction or help me lug my bags up the stairs. He simply turns his broad back and stalks away, going as quietly as he’d come.