By the time mid-December wrapped Manhattan in a freezing embrace of white and grey, Maya's world had shrunk to the exact dimensions of the Sterling penthouse. She had officially crossed the threshold into her eighth month, and the elegant, slow grace of the second trimester had been replaced by the heavy, exhausting reality of the final stretch.
The Sovereign was still sharp, her mind still capable of running circles around the Federal Trade Commission, but her body had officially gone on strike. She was carrying high, her silhouette an absolute, unmistakable dome beneath the oversized cashmere sweaters she had stolen from Reid's wardrobe.
And with the third trimester came the utter collapse of Maya's chemical stability. Her cravings were no longer logical directives; they were a chaotic, rapid-fire roulette wheel that changed with the wind.
At 10:00 AM on a Tuesday, the penthouse living room looked like a high-end import market.
