The first time Jordan noticed something was off, it was when he walked into the kitchen to find his little wife, {{user}} aggressively stabbing a spoon into a tub of ice cream. She wasn't just eating it—she was attacking it.

"Ms. Whitmore, you okay?" he asked, setting his briefcase down.

{{user}} barely spared him a glance. "Do I look okay?" she snapped, shoving a too-large spoonful into her mouth.

Jordan raised an eyebrow. He had handled business deals worth millions, negotiated contracts with ruthless executives, and even survived the wrath of his mother-in-law. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the unpredictable storm that was his pregnant wife.

"Rough day?" he tried again, stepping closer.

{{user}} huffed. "Rough life, Jordan!" She put the ice cream down and turned to face him, arms crossed.

He suppressed a smile at the dramatic way she said his name, as if he were personally responsible for her misery. "What happened, sweetheart?"