Semua Bab TWO PINK LINES, ONE NIGHT STAND : Bab 21 - Bab 30

[SFX: HALLWAY. EMPTY. THEN ADRIAN’S FOOTSTEPS. SLOW.] No Marcos. No security. No Knight Tower. Just Adrian. Stitches in his arm. Blood under his nails from Alex. Three days no sleep. And a dad with nothing left to lose. [SFX: DOOR. 412. UNLOCKED.] Marcus Vane was waiting. Hospital gown. Knife in one hand. Phone in the other. Recording. Valeria tied to a chair. Tape on her mouth. Eyes wild. _Sister_. “Took you long enough,” Marcus said. Smiled. Didn’t reach his eyes. “Thought you’d send your dogs.” “I don’t own dogs,” Adrian said. Flat. “Just a son.” He stepped inside. Door shut. _Beep_. Locked from the inside. No one coming. “You fired me,” Marcus said. Circling. “Took my merger. Took my life. Then you took _her_.” He nodded at Valeria. “She was supposed to be Mrs. Knight. Not the cleaner.” Adrian didn’t look at Valeria. Eyes on the knife. “You want Alex,” Adrian said. Not a question. “I want _justice_,” Marcus spat. “You ruined me. So I ruin you. Eye for an

[SFX: BEACH HOUSE. DAWN. WAVES. THEN BEEP. NOT THE NICU.] My vow. Six weeks pregnant. Again. 167 BPM. Not the hospital monitor this time. My watch. Adrian bought it after Alex came home. “So I stop asking if you’re breathing,” he’d said. Now it buzzed against my wrist at 5:43 AM because my heart rate jumped when I rolled over and saw him. Adrian Knight. Asleep. For real. No suit. No phone. No contract between us. Just bare feet, grey sweats, and Alex, three months old, twelve pounds of sleeping son sprawled across his chest like he owned the man. Which he did. Alex made a sound. Not a cry. A snuffle. His fist opened against Adrian’s collarbone. Adrian didn’t wake, but his arm tightened. Automatic. Like breathing. Like the way he’d learned to check for my pulse in his sleep after Marcus. I shouldn’t have counted. But I did. Three heartbeats in the room. Mine. Adrian’s. Alex’s. All under 80 BPM for once. No machines. No Valeria. No Reese Calhoun. Just waves and salt

*Chapter 24: "Ghost of the Board"* _2000 words_[SFX: BEACH HOUSE. 10:42 AM. PHONES RINGING. THEN SUSAN.]“Sir. It’s live.” Susan’s voice on speaker. Adrian had it on the kitchen counter while he made Alex a bottle. One hand. Perfect ratio. 37 days in the NICU taught him how to do everything one-handed because the other was always holding a baby. “What’s live,” Adrian said. Not a question. “Page Six. TMZ. Business Insider. All of them.” Susan paused. “Reese leaked.” I was at the table. Laptop open. Ultrasound photo tucked under the keyboard like a bookmark. Two flickers. Six weeks, three days now. Still spotting. Still normal, Dr. Hewitt said. Still terrifying. “Leaked what,” I said. Susan exhaled. “Your Corner Diner timesheets. From three years ago. Clock-ins. Clock-outs. Plus a statement from your old manager.” Adrian set the bottle down. Slow. Didn’t spill. “And?” “‘Bethany worked the gala night,’” Susan read. “‘Clocked in at 4 PM. Clocked out at 2 AM. She told me she nee

[SFX: CORNER DINER. ABOVE IT. 6:17 AM. THEN TRUCKS ON HIGHWAY. THEN ALEX CRYING.]The apartment was 600 square feet. One bedroom. One bathroom. Kitchen that fit me, Adrian, and Alex if we all exhaled. Peeling linoleum. Water stain on the ceiling shaped like Texas. Adrian Knight. Billionaire. Ex-CEO. Now unemployed. Making formula in a kitchen where the fridge hummed like it was dying. He didn’t complain. Not once. Not when the hot water ran out at four minutes. Not when the neighbor below started frying bacon at 5 AM. Not when Alex outgrew the crib we bought on Craigslist and we had to put the mattress on the floor. He just learned. How to turn the stove on without it clicking for ten seconds. How to bribe the landlord with cash so he didn’t ask for pay stubs. How to hold Alex on his hip while he washed bottles because we couldn’t afford a dishwasher. [SFX: KNOCK. THEN ELENA. THEN GROCERIES.]Elena came every day. Quit Knight Industries when Reese took over. “I work for the baby

[SFX: RECTORY APARTMENT. 3:14 AM. THEN BEEP. THEN BEEP.]The monitors were everywhere. One on the fridge. BPM for the kitchen. One in the bathroom. BPM for the shower. One in the nursery. BPM for Alex. One on my wrist. BPM for me. One on Adrian’s phone. BPM for all of us. 167 BPM. Not mine. Not Alex’s. Not the twins’. Adrian’s. He was awake. Again. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom, phone in his hand, screen glowing. “You’re spiking,” he said. Not a greeting. A diagnosis. I rolled over. Twenty-one weeks now. Starting to show. Isla and Ivy pressed against my bladder, my lungs, my sanity. “I had to pee, Adrian. It’s 3 AM. My heart rate goes up when I walk.” “It hit 141,” he said. Showed me the graph. Red line. Sharp peak. “Last time you hit 140 you spotted. Dr. Hewitt said—” “Dr. Hewitt said it’s normal,” I said. Sat up. “She said twins make your heart work harder. She said walking to the bathroom isn’t a medical emergency.” He didn’t answer. He was looking at the mon