Day One: Sunday
Isla woke up nauseous.
Stumbled to the bathroom and threw up everything she'd eaten the night before.
Stress, she told herself. Just stress from the plea deal. From Killian leaving in six days. From everything.
But when she came back to bed, Killian was awake. Watching her with concern.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Just my stomach being weird."
"You've been sick the last three mornings." His hand settled on her forehead. "No fever. Could be food poisoning? Or—"
"Or stress. Which makes sense given everything." Isla settled back against him. "I'm fine. Just need to eat better. Sleep better. Stop thinking about Monday."
But the nausea continued all morning.
And when she couldn't keep down breakfast, Killian insisted she see a doctor.
"It's nothing—"
"It could be something. An ulcer. An infection. Something serious." His voice was firm. "Humor me. Please. I need to know you're okay before I—"
Before he went to prison.
He didn't finish, but she heard it anyway.
