"Oh no," I say quietly.
Santos straightens from the window.
"No," I say, to no one in particular, mostly to my own biology, which is clearly not listening.
The third wave is not subtle.
"Sit down," Matteo says, and he's already moving around the desk, which I want to tell him is unnecessary, except my legs have apparently submitted their resignation without consulting me and sitting down does seem like a reasonable response to what is currently happening to my body.
"I'm okay,” I say again, from the chair.
"It's not warm in here," Santos says.
"It's like there's a fire in here," I gasp, finding it hard to breathe.
"Your scent," Tomas says, and his voice has dropped into something careful and measured, the voice of someone managing a situation. "Jennifer. When did you last—"
"I can't be going into heat again. I had pre-heat less than a week ago," I say firmly.
They exchange looks, then Tomas is watching me with his gray eyes and his glasses and the particular focused attention of a man putting a picture together one piece at a time.
"Why?" Tomas says.
"Because I am pregnant and I was not supposed to have another one," I say through my teeth. Another wave. I grip the armrests.
"Let us take care of you," Santos says, and he's crouched in front of me now, which is a wildly unfair position for him to bein given that his scent is everywhere and my rose has apparently staged a full coup. "Jennifer. Let us."
"You messed everything up," I tell him, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I don't trust you. Any of you. I think Matteo has been coming to my room at night, thinking I didn't forget what you did in Vegas."
"We know," Santos says. "We're sorry."
"Right now I need my beurre blanc and possibly some cold water."
"We called you in here to apologize," Matteo says as he kneels beside me.
"This doesn't change anything," I say. "Just so we're clear. Whatever this is, it doesn't change the job or the contract or the plan."
"Understood," Tomas says.
"And I need to get paid."
"You'll get paid," Matteo says.
"Full amount," Santos agrees.
"Okay," I say. "But I can't be in heat. Not with the baby."
"Baby?" Santos says.
I can't be doing this right now. Not with them. I thought heat cycles stop when you're pregnant. I think I read it once, but then again, nothing makes sense anymore.
"Baby," Santos repeats.
Another silence, longer this time, all three of them processing at different speeds and in completely different ways, which I don't have the bandwidth to manage because I am sitting in a chair going into heat at fourteen weeks pregnant in a study that smells exactly like every reason this is happening and I am having a very eventful Tuesday.
"Call the doctor," Matteo says to Tomas, who is already on the phone.
"I don't need a doctor," I say.