POV Emilia
The morning of Dad’s funeral feels like drowning in slow motion.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in the penthouse, staring at the black dress hanging from the closet door like it’s evidence of a crime I didn’t commit.
My hands won’t stop shaking, which is fucking ridiculous because Daniel Hart raised me to handle crisis with surgical precision, not fall apart like some delicate flower.
Except he’s dead, so his parenting philosophies feel pretty useless right now.
Adrian has been in corporate crisis mode since the hospital call three days ago—arranging flowers, coordinating with funeral directors who speak in hushed tones about “celebration of life” bullshit, making sure every detail screams “successful businessman received appropriate send-off.”
He’s been amazing, honestly, but watching him manage my grief like a hostile takeover makes everything feel surreal.
“The cars arrive at ten,” he says, appearing in the doorway wearing a suit. “Melanie’s here. I thought you might want—”
“Thank fuck,” I interrupt, because facing today without my best friend feels impossible. “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen. Making coffee and probably judging my emotional availability.”
“Your emotional availability is fine. Your need to control everything when you’re stressed is showing, but your emotional availability is solid.”
He almost smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was intended as one.”
Mel finds me twenty minutes later, still sitting on the bed in my underwear, staring at the dress like it might spontaneously combust.
“Okay, babe.” She sits beside me, radiating that particular brand of tough love that’s gotten me through every crisis since college. “Let’s get you dressed.”
“I can’t do this, Mel.”
“Yeah, you can. You’re Daniel Hart’s daughter. You could deliver a eulogy while juggling flaming torches if necessary.”
“What if I cry? What if I fall apart in front of all those people who are expecting me to be strong?”
“Then you cry. Falling apart at your father’s funeral is literally the most normal human response possible.”
She helps me into the dress—simple, expensive, appropriately funeral-ish—while I try to remember how to breathe like a functional adult instead of someone whose entire world just imploded.
“Better?” she asks.
“No, but adequately dressed for public grief.”
That’s when the nausea hits like a freight train full of bad decisions.
“Oh, shit.” I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the sudden urge to redecorate Mel’s shoes with whatever’s left in my stomach. “I think I’m gonna—”
I don’t finish the sentence because I’m already running for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before everything comes up in a spectacular display of bodily rebellion.
“Em?” Mel’s voice carries through the bathroom door. “You okay?”
“Fantastic,” I call back, wiping my mouth with tissue. “Just living my best life over here.”
She pushes in anyway, because boundaries are for people who aren’t currently falling apart in expensive bathrooms.
“When’s the last time you ate?” she asks, wetting a washcloth with the efficiency of someone who’s handled plenty of hungover friends.
“Coffee. This morning. Maybe yesterday.” I accept the cool cloth gratefully. “Food seems impossible right now.”
“Babe, you can’t survive on caffeine and grief. That’s not sustainable.”
“Watch me.”
But even as I say it, another wave of nausea rolls through me like my stomach’s staging a personal revolt.
“How are you feeling now?” Mel asks, studying my face with that concerned-friend expression that usually precedes unwanted advice.
“Dizzy. Shaky. Like my internal organs are plotting against me.” I lean against the bathroom wall because standing upright feels ambitious. “It’s probably stress. Grief does weird shit to your body, right?”
“Right,” she agrees, but something in her voice suggests she’s thinking things she’s not saying yet.
* * *
The funeral is a blur of expensive flowers, people in black who knew Dad better than I did, and speeches about his business acumen that barely mention the complicated asshole father part.
I manage to get through my own eulogy without completely losing my shit, which feels like a minor miracle.
The reception afterward is held at some ridiculously upscale restaurant that Dad probably picked out years ago because he was the kind of control freak who planned his own memorial lunch. Everyone’s being appropriately somber.
I’m standing near the buffet, trying to figure out if I can manage actual food, when the smell hits me.
Roasted chicken. Garlic. Something that’s probably delicious under normal circumstances but right now makes my stomach launch into full rebellion mode.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, covering my mouth and speed-walking toward the bathroom like my life depends on it.
This time it’s worse. Everything comes up—which isn’t much, since I’ve been surviving on coffee and sheer stubborn will for days. By the time I’m done, I’m shaking and sweating and feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Adrian finds me slumped against the bathroom wall, probably looking like death warmed over.
“We’re leaving,” he says, helping me to my feet with the kind of gentle authority that suggests arguing would be pointless.
“I should stay. People expect—”
“People expect nothing. You buried your father three hours ago. Anyone who has opinions about you leaving early can fuck themselves sideways.”
The ride home is quiet. I spend it with my head against the window, watching Manhattan blur past while trying to convince my stomach to behave like a normal organ instead of a vindictive toddler.
“I’m just going to sleep,” I tell Adrian when we get back to the penthouse. “Everything feels impossible right now.”
“Whatever you need.”
I change into pajamas and crawl under covers that smell like expensive detergent and the faint remnant of Adrian’s cologne from when we shared this bed in what feels like a previous lifetime. Sleep seems like the only escape from the relentless ache of missing Dad and the physical misery of whatever stress-induced illness is destroying my digestive system.
I’m nearly out when Mel fills the doorway, keeping the promise to stay as long as it takes.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, settling on the edge of the bed.
“Horrible.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face with that expression that usually precedes uncomfortable truths.
“Em,” she says finally, voice careful in a way that makes my stomach clench with fresh anxiety. “I need to ask you something, and I want you to really think before you answer.”
“Okay…”
“When’s the last time you had your period?”
The question hits like ice water. “What?”
“Your period, babe. When was your last one?”
I stare at her, brain trying to process what she’s suggesting while simultaneously rejecting it as completely impossible.
“I…” I try to remember, but the last few weeks have been such a blur of fake engagements and real feelings and corporate drama that normal biological functions haven’t exactly been priority tracking.
“You’ve been nauseous for days. You can’t keep food down. You’re exhausted beyond what grief explains.” Mel reaches for my hand, voice gentle but insistent. “Did you take a pregnancy test?”
“No, because I’m not—” But the protest dies in my throat because suddenly pieces are clicking together in ways that make my chest tight.
The Alps. Adrian’s bedroom. Several nights of not being particularly careful about protection because we were caught up in the moment and apparently operating under the assumption that life-changing consequences only happen to other people.
“I think you’re pregnant,” Mel says softly.