13. Roland

Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck.

"Nope, this doesn't change anything," I said in an attempt to convince myself, as if the words spoken out loud would somehow make them true. "The plan must go on. Just maybe… a little faster than before." I blew out a shaky breath, casting a glare over at the pregnancy test still lying on the floor where I'd dropped it.

Pregnant. With a baby. A tiny human baby. I rolled my eyes. Obviously, it was human. Or, I mean, I hoped? A manic giggle snuck out, cut off abruptly when my throat closed up, choking off my air supply.

Thinking about the baby had my steps kicking up a notch as I paced back and forth across the short distance, from the front door, three strides to cross the kitchen, four more to the window, and then back. I couldn't seem to get my thoughts in order, so I outlined the plan again.

Get my job back.

Get evidence that Emerson was being forced into marriage.

Put that bitch mayor in her place, either behind bars or six feet under—I wasn't picky. As long as it was far the hell away from here. I mean, I'd be happy enough if she moved to Timbuktu. I wasn't asking a lot.

When you put anything in point form, it made it seem easier, but I was quite certain it wouldn't be anywhere near as straightforward as that. Especially now that I had a physical deadline of approximately seven months.

I placed my palm over my flat stomach. What would Emerson do when he found out I was pregnant? Would he still go through with his marriage to Eva? Or would he insist on marrying me instead? Did I want that? I mean, I didn't need an alpha to take care of me. I was totally capable of raising a child by myself. But that didn't mean it wouldn't be nice…

Growling in frustration, I resumed my pacing, until three thumps came from the wall I shared with Collette. "Cut the racket, I'm trying to watch my show," her muffled voice said. Gods, these walls were thin.

Her voice seemed to cut straight through my anxiety, and I stood there in the middle of my living room, staring out the window at the darkening street below.

Fuck. I'm pregnant.

I wanted to be excited about it. In an alternate universe, Emerson would be here by my side, and we would be celebrating our baby. Our love would be enough to make it work. We would lie in bed and talk about baby names, and we would search real estate websites to find a bigger place together, where we could decorate a nursery. I would say, "Let's paint it blue," and he would say, "What if it's a girl?" and I would say, "Girls can't like blue?" And of course, I would win, because I knew, in this hypothetical world, he would always let me win.

Sometimes, I wished I didn't have a good imagination. It only made this harder.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I spun on my heel, grabbed my keys off the table, and stormed out of the apartment. I was going to fix this. For me, for Emerson, but more importantly, for our child. No baby daddy of mine was going to marry some uppity bitch. Who the hell did she think she was? Well, she had another thing coming. Soon, she would see what an omega like me could do when he had the right motivation. She was going down.

I kept my momentum going, psyching myself up for everything I planned to do, the hurdles that I needed to jump in order to get there. If I stopped for even a second and let myself dwell on the what-ifs, my heart would come to a screeching halt, and that would be the end. Game over.

Sandy saw me coming, and their smile stretched wide. "Roland, you're back!"

"Damn straight," I said with far more ferocity than I ever would've imagined in my current situation. They held the door open for me with a gloved hand, and I marched in through that glass door, eyes zeroing in on Emerson's office door.

With the acoustics of the space, I swore I could hear my heaving breath reflected back at me, so I let it bolster my courage. In, out, in, out, my heart pounding a steady staccato in my chest. I knew my coworkers were watching me, their whispered encouragement almost gleeful as I passed. They knew I was about to give our boss a piece of mind, and they were here for it.

I barely paused to knock before bursting into the office. Emerson's head jerked up, and I hated how he was a shell of his former self. He was thinner, his hair lank and unwashed, deep creases under his eyes. "Roland, I—" he began, rising out of the chair, fully prepared to rush at me.

I pointed a finger at him. "Sit," I commanded firmly, and he obeyed without hesitation. It was such a heady, powerful feeling to be holding all the cards. I took a deep breath to keep from getting dizzy. My stomach was threatening to empty itself right here on the floor, and I didn't think it had anything to do with the baby growing inside me.

The room wasn't large, but it felt smaller than usual, like I was growing to fill the space. I marched straight up to his desk and glared down at him with all the ferocity I could muster. "I'm coming back to work." He nodded fervently, relief shining in his eyes. "But I'm going to set some ground rules, and you will follow them. You will only talk to me about work, nothing personal. I don't want to hear about your day. You will not ask me if I'm okay." I paused long enough for him to nod again. "There will be no touching, zero, not even an accidental brush of the shoulder, because you should never be close enough to me for this to happen. And you will never be alone with me. If you ever notice this has happened by accident, you will get up and leave the room immediately. Got it?"

Emerson's eyes flashed with a cold, blue light. I waited for him to acknowledge that he understood. He gave a final nod, his lips pinched tight. He wasn't happy about it, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. "Good. I'll be working dayshifts, Monday to Friday, from now on. Make it work." I spun around and marched straight back out.

Emerging from that room, my heart was racing like I'd just run the hundred-meter dash and come in last. I became aware of the sweat dripping down the inside of my shirt, and I plucked the fabric between my fingers and tried to flap it a few times, hoping to catch a breeze.

Phase one was complete. Piece of cake. I faced down Emerson and got my job back, which put me in prime position to take control of the situation. Now, all I needed was a legion of accomplices.

To do that, I would have to enlist the help of my friends. There was only one guaranteed way to spread the word: Patrick. He was by far the biggest gossip in the entire staff, and since he worked in housekeeping, his job took him all over the hotel, making him an ideal point of contact with everyone. And so, my search for Patrick began. You could never quite guarantee where you'd find him. He might've been in any of the hotel's 200 guest rooms… or he might've been hanging out in the laundry or the kitchen or, in today's case, sitting on an overturned bucket in the very same supply closet where Emerson first kissed me.

When I opened the door, he looked up at me from where he was hunched over his notepad, pen in hand. "I take it the muse came knocking?" I teased, slipping into the closet with him while I tried my hardest to banish all memory of what had transpired in here. As if by reflex, my skin heated.

"Absolutely!" He grinned, patting a box of glass cleaner for me to have a seat. "See, I heard about how you swooped in here like an avenging angel and demanded your job back, and I had this idea for a spicy scene in my next book. I had to write it down straight away before it slipped away."

My lips puckered in a frown as I perched carefully on the box. "How have you already heard about that? I've been back in the building for all of five minutes."

He shrugged and waved me away like it was no big deal. "What can I say? It's a slow day for gossip. Or maybe, it's that we're all insanely glad to see you finally take charge of that adorably grumpy boss of ours." He sighed dreamily, then looked at me fully, his gaze turning curious. "You know, I think he might actually be good for you. Your cheeks are rosy, and your eyes are all sparkly. I haven't seen you this alert in ages—maybe ever."

"Geez, why do people keep saying shit like that? It's like everyone think I'm sleepwalking on the job." He raised a brow as if to say, "Aren't you?" I forged ahead before I could agree with him. "Anyway, I might have some better gossip for you nosy busybodies."

"Ooh, goody!" He leaned in conspiratorially, notching his chin in his palm, elbow propped on his knee. "Lay it on me. I'm all ears."

Even though we were enclosed in a closet, I still leaned closer until we were only inches apart and whispered, "You've heard Monsieur Holland is getting married?"

He scoffed and threw in an eye roll. "Duh. That's not news. Is that all you've got? Lame."

I could feel my smirk widening as phase two began to take shape. "Well, did you know he doesn't want to marry her?"

Patrick's eyes narrowed. He hated to admit when there was something he didn't know. "Well, I mean, I suspected as much, the way he looks at you. Go on…" He began tapping his pen, and I almost laughed at how his muse was already tugging a story into shape.

"What I heard…" I paused for maximum effect, "was that Eva Ward was actually connected to the mafia, and she's forcing him into it so she can control the hotel."

Patrick gasped, face a mask of overdone shock, as he played his part as gossip queen. "No!"

"Yes!" I chirped back. Just because I didn't have any proof that Eva was a criminal—yet—that didn't mean I couldn't stir the pot a little. I hadn't been able to find any proof myself, but many hands made light work.

"But… that's not fair," he said, frowning as he thought it over. He mirrored the same indignation that I'd been feeling since the moment Emerson had told me he was marrying her. "He's clearly in love with you."

His words stabbed at me, and I winced, swallowing through a tightening throat, but Patrick didn't seem to notice. "There has to be something we can do!" he snarled, shoving to his feet.

I stood up beside him, adrenaline pushing through the dread to take center stage. "I have a plan… sort of…" It was flimsy at best and would very likely fail, but I couldn't just stand around and do nothing. "Spread the word. Staff meeting tomorrow morning, we'll meet in the kitchen before the dining room opens. Don't tell Monsieur Holland."