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Shadows of Morning Sickness and Golf Course Revelations

The early morning light peeks through the delicate curtains, casting a soft glow upon the slumbering figure of Venetia. Although only a month pregnant, the first wave of morning sickness crashes upon her today with unrelenting force.

Suddenly, she jolts awake, throwing the duvet aside in a hurried frenzy. Her feet hit the floor with a resounding thud as she dashes towards the en-suite bathroom, her senses consumed by the urgency to reach her destination.

In the living room, Tom has been awake for some time, his ears attuned to the subtle sounds of the morning. The commotion emanating from the hallway catches his attention, and he rises from his seat, curiosity guiding his steps. The rhythmic sounds of his partner's distress reach his ears, drawing him closer to the source.

With a gentle push, he opens the door to Venetia's bedroom, his eyes falling upon a dishevelled scene. Her petite frame is hunched over the toilet, retching into the pan, her body consumed by the cruel throes of morning sickness. Though a pang of sympathy tugs at Tom's heart, a swell of delight overtakes him. It is a tangible confirmation that their unborn child is flourishing within her womb, a testament to the life they have created together.

Stepping into the bathroom, Tom approaches Venetia with deliberate steps. She attempts to turn around, seeking solace in his presence, but he stops her gently, understanding the fragile nature of the moment. His hands reach out, effortlessly sweeping away the tendrils of hair that cling to her face. With a tender touch, he begins to rub her back in soothing circles, offering a quiet comfort amidst the storm of her emotions.

In the wake of her tumultuous ordeal, Venetia's body gives way to tears, her emotions bubbling forth in an unexpected release. Sinking down, she finds respite against the cool porcelain of the gold claw bathtub, her back cradled by its elegant curves. Her head leans against Tom's shoulder, seeking solace in his unwavering presence.

They sit there in silence, the unspoken words hanging in the air, mingling with the faint scent of disinfectant and vulnerability.

*

As the day wears on, the quartet - Tom, Harry, Jack, and Venetia - find themselves in the embrace of a country club, nestled just beyond the reaches of New York City.

Seeking refuge from the clamour of the restaurant, they retreat to the conservatory, where they can relish in the scenery and quietness.

"Remember that time on the seventeenth hole?" he asks, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Harry chuckles, his gravelly voice rumbling through the room.

"How could I forget? You had one foot in the rough and the other on the green, and you still managed to sink that impossible putt."

Jack raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sly grin.

"Don't forget the time this one teed off and accidentally hit the old guy right in the bollocks!"

Laughter erupts from the trio, blending with the distant hum of the air conditioning. Tom wipes a tear from his eye and leans forward, the telltale signs of a legendary tale taking shape in his voice.

"Ah, but that was nothing compared to the time we had to face that thunderstorm on the final round of the championship."

Harry leans in, the creases on his forehead deepening with interest.

"Go on, Tom. I've heard bits and pieces from dad, but I want to hear the full story."

With a dramatic pause, Tom leans back, his eyes distant.

"Me, dad and a couple of his mates were drenched to the bone. We could barely see a thing out there. Thunder roared above us, and lightning split the sky. But we weren't about to let a little storm stop us, oh no."