Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 1

1

I learned early on in my life how to smile when I’d rather scream instead.

Dr. Mom is parading me around her surgical conference like a prize pony?

Clench and smile.

Med school professor takes one look at me and tells the entire class I probably only got accepted because of my last name?

Clench and smile.

A glittering charity gala at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, during which a “potential investor” is ogling my cleavage so blatantly that I find myself dreaming of dousing him in kerosene and lighting a match?

Clench and smile like a Crest commercial, baby.

Not that I can afford to do the dousing. There’s too much at stake here tonight. And honestly, my self-esteem is low enough these days that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my dream alive.

If wooing this investor means pouring champagne on myself instead of kerosene on him—then, shoot, I’ll put on a bikini top and pour ‘til the cows come home.

“We have very promising patient results, Mister⁠—”

But before I can even get halfway through my pitch, the man is shaking his head. “Save your breath. You’re not getting a cent from me, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart” must be his nickname for my tits, because the silver-haired vulture capitalist—excuse me, venture capitalist—is still lost in my cleavage.

He tosses back his drink and holds his empty glass out towards me like I’m on the catering staff. “But I will take another drink. Be a good girl and fetch it for me, will ya?”

My jaw drops. He can’t be…?

Oh, yes, he is. He is very serious indeed. So I take a deep breath… I clench and… Clench and sm…

Ah, screw it. I can’t do it anymore.

So I freaking unload on him instead.

“You know what? Fuck. You. ” I jab a finger in his chest. “Fuck you very much. Fuck you for your misogyny and your condescension. Fuck you for failing upwards time and time again, just because you’ve got a pair of saggy, wrinkly balls dangling between your legs. Fuck you for pitying me and fuck you for the fact that, even after this shitshow of a conversation, you’re gonna waltz off into the sunset to go blatantly hit on some other poor woman, even though your wife, the literal mother of your literal children, is literally ten feet away.”

The man blinks at me and shakes his glass again. “I said, I’ll take another drink, darling.”

That’s when I realize that my entire monologue was just a fantasy.

In reality, I didn’t say any of that out loud. I only did what I always do.

Clench and smile.

With a shrug that might as well say, Suit yourself, you crazy bitch, the man turns and saunters away. Sure enough, not a minute passes before he’s pressing his clammy hand to the exposed back of another unsuspecting female victim.

I’m not gonna lie: The rejection stings. It stings a lot. They always do.

But I’ve become numb to the pain. After all, I’ve had a lot of practice.

This is the sixth rejection tonight. For those keeping score at home, that means that six potential investors who could’ve saved Aster Fertility Solutions from drowning heard my pitch and said, Nah . Six people looked at me, at my work, my passion—and yes, my boobs—and decided it wasn’t worth any of their precious millions.

I mean, why invest in a clinic that is dedicated to offering desperate women autonomy, choice, and second chances? After all, there are yachts to buy and strip clubs to patronize, right?

I take a deep breath and shove my business card back into my clutch with the others. I was so proud last week when two hundred pieces of premium cardstock with Aster Fertility Solutions embossed on the front arrived at my office.

Too bad no one aside from me and the printer will ever see them.

Truthfully, I want to sink to my knees and sob. But that would draw eyeballs, and if Dr. Mom taught me anything, it’s that you never, ever want people pitying you in public.

So instead, I tuck my clutch under my arm and go looking for a nice spot to have a quiet mental breakdown.

People barely bother to get out of my way as I navigate through the tuxedoed and ball-gowned masses of Boston’s one-percenters, as I dance between the towering ice sculptures shaped like genitalia.

The gala planning committee really dove into tonight’s theme of “advancing modern fertility research.” Personally, I think the giant melting ice penis is a little much, but no one asked for my opinion.

As I’m trying to nudge past rich people who seem to think my rotting hopes and dreams actually have a repulsive stench, my phone vibrates again. Speak of the devil.

If Margaret Aster, Chief of Surgery at Mass General and tiger mom extraordinaire, is good for anything, it’s exquisite timing for her little pep talks of encouragement.

DR. MOM: Have you secured any commitments yet? Dr. Walsh just announced a new partnership at her table.

Of course she did.

Because she’s a fucking snake.

Dr. Rebecca Walsh, my former mentor-turned-nemesis and the most lethal of all the sharks circling me, has been systematically poaching my clients for months.

She lures them in with promises of a personalized experience she can only afford because she’s spreading her legs for all the VCs and wealthy investors in Boston. “Personalized” is B.S., though—she’s basically running a chain of assembly line baby factories. She might as well be setting up shop in a back alley with a turkey baster.

“Classy,” it is not.

But “class” isn’t her goal. From the moment Mass Gen announced they were looking for a fertility clinic to launch an exclusive branded partnership with, Walsh’s one and only goal was to make sure it wouldn’t be mine.

So far, she’s getting her way.

I down my champagne in one gulp. Walsh wants this Mass Gen partnership, but I need it. Without it, AFS is finished.

That’s the only reason I’m here tonight: praying that I find someone with a big enough heart and a bigger checkbook to keep my clinic alive.

So on second thought, the mental breakdown is gonna have to wait.

I scan the room, looking for my next target. I’m not picky at this point; I’ll take anyone. It’s depressing just how low the bar has fallen.

My original dream for Aster Fertility Solutions was to work with women who understood love, who craved family, who had values and morals and things they dreamed of.

That dream died quickly.

And tonight, the people I’m trying to woo are dancing all over its grave.

To think I was still hopeful when I first arrived here. One woman approached me to chat about treatment options, and it took me ten minutes to realize that “Muffy” was not her bizarre nickname for her vagina, but rather the name of the infertile, fifteen-year old Pomeranian stuffed in her twenty-thousand dollar handbag.

She wanted me to help her dog have babies. Good Lord.

I thanked her politely, told her I didn’t specialize in canine reproduction, and then fled as fast as I could. If all else fails, maybe I’ll go back and beg her for the chance to work together. Dr. Doggystyle kinda has a ring to it, right?

… Morbid, Liv. That’s very, very morbid.

But post-Muffy, things did not improve. Most of the women here are vapid socialites who think their money entitles them to designer babies grown by surrogates so that they don’t have to stretch out their own uteruses. They’re usually married to men who would happily fertilize the crevice of a couch cushion if it was plush enough.

But beggars can’t be choosers, and right now, I’m practically on my knees.

That’s when I see him. Frederick Carson is red-faced and swaying near the bar, his whiskey dangling from meaty fingers.

He’s not my white-knight-in-waiting, though.

He’s a horror movie with the opening credits already rolling.

Six months ago, Frederick stormed out of my office after I refused to prioritize his semen analysis over the single mothers on my waitlist. It wouldn’t take a formal analysis to show his sample was ninety percent booze and ten percent unearned confidence.

I try to duck so he doesn’t see me. But like my mom, I’ve always had excellent timing. Unfortunately for me, that timing only extends to getting stuck in horrible situations. What happens next is merely another feather in my cap.

Frederick’s bloodshot eyes lock onto mine.

His face contorts into a sneer.

Don’t, I pray silently. Please don’t cause a ⁠ —

“Can’t believe you deigned to show your face here.” Frederick’s scoff is a vicious bark, drawing glances from nearby guests as he elbows his beefy way through the crowd. “Figured you’d be too busy playing God with people’s futures.”

I clench my teeth in a smile once again. “And I figured you’d be too busy blaming everyone but your low motility for your problems. Guess we both built some room into our schedules tonight.”

It’s a low blow, but men like Frederick only understand the language of humiliation. Watching my mother reduce her male colleagues to stammering boys in hospital corridors taught me that lesson.

Frederick’s grin curdles. He lurches closer, almost sloshing whiskey onto my thrifted heels. “You think you’re better than me?” His voice rises, drawing all the wrong kind of attention. “That clinic of yours is a joke. Heard your last investor dipped. What’s next—selling your own eggs on Craigslist?”

The insult stings. If he saw my recent search history, he’d know it was under consideration.

My chest burns, but I refuse to flinch. “At least I’ve built something myself. All you do is decide how to divvy up your trust fund.”

“You’re a saucy little bitch with an oversized ego.” Frederick’s hand clamps around my wrist, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. His breath hits my face, hot and sour with halitosis and liquor. “That’s your problem. You think you’re something special, but you need to learn your place. You need to⁠—”

“—apologize.”

Silence.

Not just from me—from both of us. Because Frederick and I are equally confused by who spoke. If it wasn’t him and it wasn’t me, then who…?

We turn in unison to see a man looming large over us.

And just like that, the nightmare gets worse.