Chapter 163

Anna’s POV

I barely made it to the restroom before my stomach emptied itself violently. The cigarette smoke had triggered something primal and unstoppable. I gripped the cold porcelain, my knuckles white as I heaved until there was nothing left but bitter bile.

Pregnancy had transformed my body into a foreign landscape. Before, I'd merely disliked cigarette smoke; now, the mere whiff sent me spiraling into nausea so intense it made my vision blur.

I slumped against the wall, sweat beading along my hairline. Rachel hovered nearby, concern etched across her face, but there was little she could do. My mouth tasted like acid, and my legs felt like they'd been replaced with wet noodles.

The bathroom door suddenly burst open. Through my watery vision, I made out Marcus Murphy's tall figure, his expression twisted with concern. Before I could process what was happening, strong arms scooped me up like I weighed nothing.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble I could feel through his chest.

I wanted to protest—to insist I could walk—but exhaustion had drained the fight from me. I found myself curling instinctively into his embrace, my head resting against his shoulder. His cologne carried notes of sandalwood and something crisp that oddly settled my churning stomach rather than aggravating it.

Back in private dining room, Joseph's eyebrows shot up as Marcus carried me in.

"Well, if it isn't Anna Shaw! What happened to her?" His tone held unmistakable teasing. "What's going on? Is she okay?"

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Being carried in like some damsel in distress wasn't exactly aligned with my carefully crafted image of independence.

Marcus waved his hand dismissively. "Open the windows, give her some space, don't crowd around." The sharp edge in his voice made it clear he wasn't in the mood for Joseph's antics.

Nora rushed toward us, worry creasing her forehead. "Ms. Shaw isn't feeling well," she explained, reaching for an unopened water bottle.

But Marcus was faster, pressing a glass into my hand. "It's mine, I haven't drunk from it yet. The temperature is just right."

Our fingers brushed during the exchange, sending an unexpected current up my arm. I took small sips, the warm water soothing my raw throat. The nausea began to recede like an ebbing tide.

"Thank you, Marcus. I'm causing trouble for you again," I managed a weak smile. "It seems I'm always creating problems for you."

Before Marcus could respond, Joseph jumped in. "No problem at all. He doesn't mind the trouble." His exaggerated wink made my stomach clench for reasons entirely unrelated to morning sickness.

Marcus shot Joseph a withering glare. "Just eat your food. If you don't want to eat, then leave."

"Hey, you jerk, this dinner is on me, in case you forgot?" Joseph laughed, seemingly immune to Marcus's irritation.

Marcus turned to me, his expression softening. "Are you done with your meeting? I'll take you home."

"Please don't trouble yourself. I'll be fine once I've rested a bit," I protested, though the thought of escaping to my quiet bedroom was increasingly appealing.

"Marcus, weren't you all discussing business? Maybe I should step out..." I offered, feeling like an intruder.

"They're not important. You sit here and don't move," he commanded, an unfamiliar tension lacing his words. Then, more severely: "Look at the state you're in. If you faint outside, I'll have to carry you back again."

His unexpected harshness caught me off guard. I blinked, unsure why he seemed suddenly angry.

A server arrived with a small bowl of rice porridge—bland enough not to trigger nausea, yet substantial enough to settle my stomach. I surprised myself by finishing it quickly, my appetite returning with unexpected force.

Marcus observed this with a slight frown. "That bowl is tiny. How could that be enough? Bring two more."

Joseph stared at me with undisguised amazement, probably wondering what society lady would consume three bowls of porridge in one sitting. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: *three bowls, one for each of us*. The notion warmed me from within like sunshine after rain.

When Marcus and Joseph were called away to handle some commotion outside, Sawyer leaned toward Nora with predatory intent.

"Miss Price has her protectors now, so she's getting quite high and mighty," he drawled, malice dripping from every syllable.

Nora froze, her posture screaming trapped prey. Something protective flared inside me.

"Mr. Walker, whatever issues you have with Nora are your business, but she's with me now. Please respect that and don't give her a hard time," I stated firmly.

Sawyer's lips curled in contempt. "Think you're a big internet celebrity now? Feeling powerful?" He paused, then twisted the knife. "Oh, I almost forgot. You'd rather sell yourself than accept help from our family. Ms. Shaw, what do you think of a woman like that—is her pride worth something, or nothing at all?"

Nora's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her slender frame visibly trembling. My heart ached for her vulnerability.

"Mr. Walker, would abusing her verbally or even physically really make you feel better?" I nodded to Rachel, who quietly guided Nora out of the room.

When Marcus returned, Catherine bounded in behind him with characteristic enthusiasm.

"It's all taken care of. The smoking guy took the money and went to the hospital to get stitches himself," she announced.

Mason shifted nervously beside her. "Ms. Shaw, I'm the one who broke his head. I hit him."

"You did what you had to do," Catherine insisted. "If you hadn't moved so quickly, I would have slapped him myself."

"Right, that guy was incredibly rude," Mason nodded, seeking validation.

I felt a wave of gratitude that they'd defended me, however dramatic their methods. "Thank you for handling that, Marcus."

He checked his watch. "It's late. Time to go home."

Before I could respond, he stepped forward and scooped me into his arms again. Instinctively, my arms encircled his neck for balance.