Love in the Eye of the Storm

I was pregnant. On my way to deliver documents to Tristan Goldberg, a flash flood struck. Desperate, I dialed his number, praying he’d answer.

After a few rings, the call connected. But instead of Tristan, a woman’s voice answered. "Tristan, whose number is this? Do you want to answer it?"

There was a brief pause, and then Tristan’s voice, cold and indifferent, cut through. "It’s just my maid. Ignore it. Hang up."

And just like that, the call disconnected.

Staring at the torrent rising around me, my pulse quickened. I texted him, begging for him to send a rescue team.