Eight weeks later

Geralt scrutinised his reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. Fuck. He really looked like shit. Felt like it, too. Granted, the harsh, fluorescent lighting overhead wasn't doing him any favours, but even without it, his sickly pale skin felt clammy to the touch. He'd felt the same every morning for the last week: he'd wake up feeling nauseous like he'd spent the previous night on the sauce, but he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in weeks, not since he'd gone out clubbing with Yen. Geralt just put it down to a really aggressive stomach flu that was taking its sweet time to run its course.

He splashed cold water on his face and let out a shaky sigh—he knew that he shouldn't have come into the office today. Not that he had a choice; the potential client that they had coming in today was an important one, both in terms of wealth and influence. Most of the time, when foreign clients wanted to hire additional private security, they would send someone in to speak to Geralt's team on their behalf—normally, this would be the client's personal head of security. But, rather unusually, this client had asked to speak to Geralt directly. However unorthodox the request, his company had built up a solid reputation over the years and were happy to accommodate their clientele's needs, whatever they may be. If that meant that Geralt would have to drag his sick, sorry arse out of bed for the morning, then so be it.

Geralt involuntarily wretched again. God help him, he only needed to get through this meeting and then he could go home, crawl back into his bed and suffer in peaceful solitude. There was a polite knock at the door and a small voice called out, "Sir, Ms Riannon has just entered the building. She'll be here any minute."

"Thank you, Eleanor," he croaked. "When she arrives, send her right in. I'll be ready."

"Yes, sir."

Geralt listened to his secretary's heels click-clack across his office floor in a hurry. He checked his reflection one last time, adjusted his tie and quietly told himself to get his shit together before exiting the bathroom and taking his seat at his office desk. Even with the air-conditioning on full blast, the room felt stiflingly hot. He wished that he could open one of the windows to let in some fresh air—well, as fresh as air in central London could be—but for obvious reasons, skyscrapers weren't fitted with windows that could be opened from forty floors up. One of the reasons he'd chosen this particular office space as his base of operations was because it had a spectacular view of the surrounding skyscrapers in the city's financial district. Geralt thought that they looked like crystalline mountains the way that they jutted out of the concrete ground, a shimmering skyline of steel and glass that dominated your vision wherever you turned. It wasn't to everyone's tastes, but Geralt had always loved London's ever-changing architecture. Plus, he figured that if he was going to spend sixty hours a week here, he might as well have a view that he could enjoy.

Geralt snapped back to reality when he heard a gravelly, authoritative voice coming from the waiting area outside of his office. Having spoken to Ms Riannon on the phone already, her voice was instantly recognisable. A moment later, there was a polite knock at the door and his secretary popped her head into the room.

"Sir, Ms Riannon has arrived," she said, opening the door fully and beckoning the client into his office. A tall woman with dark brown hair fashioned into a tight bun entered the room. Geralt immediately rose to his feet, a little too quickly perhaps, because he wobbled on the spot. Fighting through his dizzy spell, he extended his hand. She gave him a curious look before taking his hand and giving it a firm shake before taking the seat in front of his desk without prompting. Eleanor lingered by the doorway and asked, "Would you like a drink, ma'am? Tea or water…"

"Coffee," Ms Riannon replied curtly. "Black."

"Of course. Sir?"

"Nothing for me, thank you."

Eleanor gave a quick nod and closed the door behind her to give Geralt privacy. He turned to the woman and said, "Ms Riannon, it's an honour to meet you."

"Is it?" she smirked. "Tell me, are you actually interested in Cintran politics, or were you merely being polite?"

Geralt blinked. He'd heard that Calanthe Fiona Riannon was sharp-tongued with wicked wit, and was famed for openly stating her opinion— a trait woefully rare in the world of politics. It earned her many admirers, but just as many enemies, which would explain why she had come here to seek Geralt's services. He considered what answer would inflict the least amount of damage: he didn't want to be rude, but she wasn't the type of woman that pandered to sycophants.

"Would you rather I gave you an honest or a diplomatic answer?" he chanced.

Ms Riannon drew him a stern look and Geralt wondered if he had made a grave miscalculation, but a moment later, she laughed and shook her head at him.

"Very good, Mr Haute-Bellegarde! Evidently, there's more to you than just your looks," she praised.

"Thank you, Ms Riannon."

"Please, call me Calanthe."

"Very well...Calanthe," he began. "How can White Wolf Protection be of service to you?"

"Hmm, straight to business as well," she mused, still smiling at him. "Your reputation really does precede you. Very well, enough of the fun and games, as fun as they are…"

She went on to explain that her granddaughter would be relocating to London for the foreseeable future. The story that they had released to the press explained that this was because she was due to enrol at Cheltenham Ladies College. As one of the top boarding schools in the world, this would come as a surprise to few. But Ms Riannon confessed that they had an ulterior motive for sending the child to study so far from home.

"The political situation in my country at the moment is...unstable," she admitted matter-of-factly. "It has recently come to my attention that credible threats have been made against my life and that of my husband. While we are confident that our security services are equipped to deal with these threats accordingly, I am not so arrogant to presume that we are untouchable. Anyone can be bought or blackmailed. And those few who are loyal to a fault are not infallible— to err is human, after all. I am not one to take chances, Mr Haute-Bellegarde, certainly not with my granddaughter's life. My husband and I both agree that it would be in Cirilla's best interests if she were to leave the country for the time being, until the situation in our country stabilises."

There was a slight knock at the door and Eleanor entered the room with a steaming hot cup of coffee for Ms Riannon. She waited until Eleanor had exited the room before continuing.

"Until such times, she will require around-the-clock security," she explained, lifting the cup to her lips and taking a sip. She scrunched up her nose and placed the cup back onto Geralt's desk. "Well, I certainly hope that your protection services are better than your coffee."

"I can assure you that they are," he promised. "Whatever you need, we are at your disposal."

As they discussed the finer points of the services that Ms Riannon wanted, Geralt's nausea reared its ugly head yet again. He cleared his throat a couple of times and subtly wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, hoping that the client wouldn't notice. But just as they were about to conclude the meeting, Ms Riannon stopped talking mid-sentence and frowned at him.

"I must say, you're looking rather pale," she mused. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine," he lied, trying his best to ignore the mounting queasiness rising up inside of him and failing spectacularly. His stomach gurgled loudly and Geralt winced as he was struck with a sudden onset of cramp. "Urgh. 'Scuse me."

"You certainly don't look alright," Ms Riannon drawled. "Do you want me to call your secretar—"

Before Ms Riannon could complete her sentence, Geralt had lunged for the waste paper basket beside his desk and was violently sick in it. Ms Riannon, far from looking scandalised by the sight, raised her eyebrows with surprise.

"Dear me," she mumbled. "You really are ill, aren't you?"

"I'm so sorry," Geralt replied shakily. "This is so embarrassing, I—" He wretched and was sick again. "Urgh, god..."

"If you were feeling unwell this morning, I would have been happy to rearrange with you," she chided lightly. "Although, I must commend you for coming in despite feeling so poorly. Bravo, sir."

"Thank you," he croaked, hugging the bin to his chest. "I don't know what the hell's wrong with me. I've been feeling like this for days now."

"Really?" she scrutinised him closely. "Have you been struggling to keep food and drink down?" Geralt nodded. "Feeling dizzy when you stand up?" He nodded again. Ms Riannon sat back in her chair. "Well, it sounds to me like the culprit could be one of two things— a very nasty stomach bug, or hyperemesis gravidarum."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Excessive nausea and vomiting," she explained. "It's a condition that some people develop when they're pregnant."

Geralt froze. "Excuse me?"

"Those experiencing their first pregnancy are at a higher risk of developing it," she continued. "I suffered it myself when I was pregnant with my daughter. If you are pregnant, you should speak to your GP about treatment."

"How would you—" Geralt stammered, then corrected himself, "Why would you assume that I was pregnant?"

"You were going to ask, how would I know that you're an Omega," she replied. "I'm entrusting you with my granddaughter's life. You must have realised that I would have done a thorough amount of research on not just your company, but into you and your staff as well before I even considered meeting you in person." Waving her hand dismissively, she continued. "Whether you're an Omega is neither here nor there. I'm satisfied that you and your company are the most qualified for the task at hand."

Ms Riannon rose to her feet and smiled at Geralt. "I believe that concludes our business for the day. Mr Lazlo is my head of security, he'll be in touch with you later today about finalising the paperwork. Oh, and if you are indeed pregnant, then you have my congratulations. Otherwise, I recommend plenty of bed rest until you're well again. Good day to you, Mr Haute-Bellegarde."

Geralt stared after Ms Riannon as she exited his office. Any exhilaration that he would have felt at securing such an important client was completely overruled by the idea that she had just implanted.

Surely not, he told himself. I can't be.

"Eleanor!" he shouted.

His secretary came hurrying into his office, looking alarmed. "Yes, sir?"

"I need to head out of the office for a while," he said, rising shakily to his feet. "I might be gone for the rest of the day. Can you see that the paperwork for Ms Riannon is dealt with as soon as possible?"

"Of course, sir." A smile crept across her face and she asked excitedly, "So, you did it? Calanthe Riannon is our newest client?"

"Uh, yeah. I suppose so," he replied distractedly, pulling on his winter coat.

Eleanor squealed and clapped her hands together. "Congratulations, sir! I take that you're going out to celebrate?"

"Celebrate what?" asked Geralt with a note of panic. Surely, she hadn't heard what Ms Riannon had said?

Eleanor's smile faltered. "Securing a new client, of course."

"Oh." Geralt's shoulders sagged. "Right. Yeah, I'm going out to...celebrate."

Geralt hurried past Eleanor without another word. The only thing that he could think about was getting to the nearest chemist and putting this insane theory to rest once and for all.