Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 11

11

His eyes lock with mine across my office. Blue with that shard of brown in it. Otherworldly.

He starts to walk toward me and the blue grows, the brown grows. It feels like I’m skydiving, plummeting out of a plane as the ocean rises up to meet me. The brown is an island, maybe, a safe landing spot.

But it’s so tiny amongst the blue. It’s so much more likely that I drown.

“You know what fascinates me about you, Dr. Aster?”

“My impressive medical credentials?” I’m going for easy, breezy sarcasm, but my voice betrays me with a slight tremor.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No. It’s how perfectly put together you are.” Another step closer. “Everything in its place. Not a hair out of line.”

My back hits the wall. I didn’t realize I’d retreated so far. He doesn’t stop advancing.

“It makes a man wonder…” He places one hand beside my head, leaning in until I can smell his cologne. “… what it would take to make you come undone.”

My breath catches. “Mr. Safonov ⁠ —”

“Stefan.” His other hand reaches up to touch a loose strand of my hair. He gives it a sharp tug that makes me gasp before tucking it behind my ear. “I want to hear you say my name, Olivia.”

“This is inappropriate,” I whisper. But I make no move to push him away.

“Incredibly.” He smiles. Perfect teeth. So, so white. It makes the blue of his eyes look that much bluer. “That’s what makes it so fucking exciting.”

His breath is hot against my neck now, lips grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. I’m trapped between the wall and his hard body. I’ve never felt so deliciously cornered in my life.

“Let me help you,” Stefan urges. “Let me solve all your problems.” His hand slides up my thigh, hitching my pencil skirt higher. Every inch of revealed skin is flushed and frantic.

“I don’t need saving,” I try to say, but the words dissolve into a moan when his thumb brushes the lace edge of my underwear.

“No?” His ice-blue eyes swallow me whole. “Then why are you wet for me already?”

When his fingertip finally grazes the seat of my panties, I buckle.

He catches me before I slide to the ground. But that’s worse, because I’m closer now, drowning in him just like I feared I would. There is no safe haven here. It’s just Stefan in every direction. He’s in my nostrils, in my underwear, in my mind, in my soul.

“I’ve thought about this since I saw you at the gala,” he murmurs against my ear. “That tight dress. All those men watching you, wanting you. But you’re not for them, are you?” His teeth nip at my earlobe. “Tell me who you’re for, Olivia.”

“I— I— I ⁠ —”

My phone vibrates against the desk and yanks me back to reality. I’m perched on the very edge of my office chair, friction digging into the place where Fantasy Stefan was touching.

Fantasy or not, he was right: I’m soaking wet.

I blink rapidly, my face flushed, heart racing. Fuck.

My office is empty. No Stefan Safonov pressing me against the wall. No hot mouth on my neck. Just me, all alone with my pathetic fantasy and a half-finished PowerPoint presentation that refuses to cooperate.

My mouse clicks echo in the empty office as I drag things a pixel left, then right. Not perfect. Still not perfect. My shoulders ache from hunching closer to the screen, but I can’t stop until they’re exactly right.

Perfection is the only acceptable outcome.

Come to think of it, I need to rewrite the whole slide. It’s poorly worded, every bit as frenetic and jumbled as my brain has been for days—weeks? And the font is too big. Maybe 10 point? No. Too small. 11. 12?

It doesn’t really matter, but then my mother’s voice slices through my thoughts: Sloppy work is worse than no work at all, Olivia.

The memory comes with the phantom scratch of expensive paper under my eight-year-old fingers, the tap-tap-tap of her nail on each crooked letter of my penmanship.

My phone pings again. I almost forgot it’s what pulled me out of my Stefan Safonov daydream in the first place.

I’ve gotten three texts from my mother in the last hour. The latest is a photo from the gala—me and Stefan between the ice sculptures, his hand at my waist. Have you seen Stefan Safonov again? He has connections at the hospital. Someone like that could help you.

Even my mother is on Team Stefan. Go figure.

My eyes flick to the clock in the corner. 8:47 A.M. The presentation isn’t until two, but my stomach clenches anyway.

Early is on time; on time is late; late is — My nails catch on my blazer. My perfect French manicure was wrecked yesterday afternoon, ragged edges from where I dug them into my palms during the Chopard meeting. That’s another hundred dollars shot. At least my cuticles aren’t bleeding.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to steady the surge of panicked thoughts swirling in my brain. Everything is wrong. The presentation, my nails, my life .

I inhale deeply for an eight count, but as I’m exhaling, my phone rings yet again.

This time, I recognize the ringtone. It’s Perfect Day from the Legally Blonde soundtrack, my own personal inside joke since my cousin Jimmy made his parents proud by becoming a lawyer.

Thank God for that. The only reason I can afford his counsel is because it’s free.

I’d pay him if I could, of course. He’s smart as a whip and has never steered me wrong. Especially when it comes to the rumor mill. He’s the one who warned me—not early enough to make a difference, but he still gets points for trying—that Dr. Walsh was planning to steal everything I’d worked for. But he works late nights and never calls this early.

Something must be wrong.

“Hello?” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can continue fixing these godforsaken bullet points.

“Yo, Liv! Just checking in. How’s your morning going?” His voice is artificially bright, like someone’s holding him at gunpoint, forcing him to sound cheerful.

“Good until you called,” I lie. “It’s early. What’s wrong?”

“Can’t a cousin just call to say hi? Maybe I wanted to hear about that gala. My mom said you looked stunning.”

I’m not the only one lying. I know for a fact that Aunt Shari texted my mom a picture of me from the event to tell her my dress looked a size too small. Also, I should apparently see a dermatologist about the freckles on my shoulders. The word “pre-cancerous” was tossed around.

“Jimmy,” I sigh, “be real with me. You’re the hospital’s corporate counsel. You’re calling me hours before my presentation to the board. Either tell me what you know or stop wasting my time.”

There’s a pause, followed by a deep sigh. “Fine.” His voice has that careful tone now. The one people use around terminal patients. “I just thought you should know… Walsh has been taking Brian Thompson’s wife to private consultations.”

Brian Thompson is the president of the hospital board and the world’s biggest “Wife Guy.” He’s basically Borat in every conversation, My wife this and My wife that. Walsh knows that as well as I do—the difference is, she used it to her advantage.

“What kind of private consultations?” I ask.

“You know his wife is into all that hippie bullshit. Walsh is probably giving her free sound bath meditation sessions and polished rocks she found in her backyard for aura cleansing. I don’t know all the details. All I do know is… well, shit, I don’t even… Look, Liv, the board is pretty much decided. They want to cancel your presentation today.”

My pen is halfway across the room before I register throwing it. It hits my orchids, which flop like they’re outraged by the insult.

“So she’s schmoozing her way into the deal with fucking astrology and pseudoscience. It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, but the Cartier watch she gifted Karen Thompson isn’t. Apparently, they had a girl’s day at Bergdorf’s last weekend.”

The fact I’m even surprised shows how naive I still am. Of course Walsh would buy her way into this Mass Gen partnership, the same way she has wriggled her snaky way into everything else. There are no depths she will not stoop to.

“That fucking snake.” I press my fingers to my temples. “You’re sure about this? The board’s really canceling?”

“They haven’t officially. But Bradley told me this morning they’re just going through the motions with you. Walsh promised she’d bring on board some big donors if they sign with her clinic.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?” My voice rises like a tea kettle, but it’s more sad than it is righteously enraged. Even I’m not scaring me. “What the hell is the point of a man on the inside if you don’t tell me anything until it’s too late?”

“I only found out an hour ago! Plus, it’s not like you can do anything about it. Unless you’re going to buy off Brian and Karen, too, then⁠—”

“How much?” I cut him off.

There’s a suspicious pause. “… How much for what?”

“To beat her. I need a number. What would it take to change their minds?”

I can practically hear Jimmy’s lawyer brain calculating the ethics of this conversation. “Don’t do that, Liv. You’re better than her.”

When I don’t respond—mostly because I don’t want to lie and agree with him—he groans. “Jesus, Liv. You’d need serious backing. The kind of money that⁠—”

“A number, Jimmy. Give me a number.”

“Seven figures, minimum. And that’s just to get their attention. But Liv, please tell me you’re not really thinking about this.”

“Thanks for the heads up. I owe you one.”

“You can pay me off, too, if that’s the way you’re going,” he mumbles.

I’m not sure if I hang up first or he does, but I place the phone on my desk and look down at my hands.

They should be shaking, trembling with indecision and worries about the morally bankrupt pit I’m falling into.

But they aren’t.

Not even as I reach for the business card on the corner of my desk. The black one with the sharp edges and the devil’s name embossed in gold.

Walsh thinks she can buy her way to the top? Fine. Two can play that game.

Though the thought of calling Stefan makes my skin flush hot again, my body remembering the fantasy from minutes ago. On second thought, this deserves more than a phone call.

I reach for my car keys, ready to face this problem head on. One thought lingers in my head as I charge out the door before I can stop to ask myself if this is actually a good idea.

Under it all… maybe I really am my mother’s daughter.