EMMA'S POV

The sterile white stick lay on the polished marble of my bathroom counter, a stark, almost brutal contrast to the soft glow of the vanity lights. Two lines. Two impossibly clear, undeniably present lines. My breath hitched, a silent, ragged gasp that seemed to steal all the air from the opulent penthouse suite. This wasn't part of the meticulously crafted timeline, the one etched into my ambition, the one Adrian and I had whispered about in the quiet intimacy of pre-dawn mornings. Not yet. Not when the ink on my promotion papers was barely dry, not when the hum of Sterling & Hayes still vibrated with the fresh triumph of my ascent.