Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 55

55

The irises arrive at two-thirty in the afternoon.

White ones, two dozen of them, arranged in fancy crystal. The delivery guy needs both hands to carry them, and Camille has to clear half the reception desk just to make space.

“Holy shit.” Cami circles the arrangement, eyes bugging out. “Who died?”

“Nobody.”

“Then who’s apologizing?”

I pluck the card from between the stems. My mother’s handwriting looks back at me.

Here’s to making the right choices. —Mom.

My chest does this stupid thing where it fills with hope. Like I’m twelve again and she actually showed up to my science fair. Like maybe, finally, after everything—the clinic’s success, the Madison investment, surviving Rebecca’s attacks—maybe she’s finally proud of me.

I grab my phone and call before I lose my nerve.

She answers on the second ring. “Olivia.”

“Mom. Hi. I just— The flowers are beautiful.”

“I’m glad they arrived intact.”

“Yeah. Very… intact. Thank you.”

Awkward silence follows. I can hear her breathing, measured and controlled.

“I saw the Madison announcement,” she says finally. “Quite the coup.”

“Yeah, it’s great, right? We’re really excited about the partnership.”

“Mmm. I have to say, I’m impressed.”

The hope inflates again. “You are?”

“Landing Stefan Safonov? That takes skill. I didn’t think you had it in you. And look what it’s gotten you?”

The hope punctures. Deflates. Dies an ugly death.

“The flowers aren’t about Madison?” I ask miserably.

“Of course not. Madison’s money is pocket change compared to what Safonov can provide.” Her voice ticks over towards approval. “You’ve finally learned to use your assets wisely.”

“My… assets?”

“Don’t play dumb, Olivia. It’s unbecoming.” Ice clinks against glass—she’s drinking. “You’ve attached yourself to one of the wealthiest men in Boston. The clinic becomes irrelevant at that point.”

“The clinic is not⁠—”

“Oh, please. We both know AFS is a vanity project. Bleeding money, constantly on the verge of collapse…” Another sip. “But none of that matters now. Safonov will take care of everything.”

My hand tightens on the phone. “I don’t need him to take care of⁠—”

“You’ve certainly made a mess of things up until now, haven’t you?” she interrupts. “No more of that. You’ll be set for life if you play your cards right.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not trying to be ‘set for life.’ I’m trying to build something meaningful.”

She actually laughs, though this one sounds like she means it. “Olivia, you’re playing Pretend Doctor with other people’s eggs and sperm. It’s hardly brain surgery.”

The words hit exactly where she aims them. Always do.

“It matters to my patients,” I insist as angry tears start to prick my eyes.

“Your patients will find other clinics when yours inevitably folds. But Safonov? Men like that don’t come along twice.” Her voice drops, almost confidential. “Don’t screw this up with your pride, dear.” She sighs like I’m exhausting her. “You’ve already won, darling. You’ve got him publicly claiming you, defending you, investing in you. Now, just maintain it. Keep him happy. Keep him interested.” She sips again and smacks her lips. “And for God’s sake, don’t get fat. Rich men have options.”

I stare at the irises. They’re already starting to wilt at the edges, I notice. Mom must not have paid for the premium ones.

“So that’s what the flowers are for? Congratulating me on landing a rich man?”

“I’m congratulating you on finally making a smart choice.” Her tone shifts, becomes almost gentle. “I know I’m hard on you, Olivia. But it’s only because I want what’s best.”

“And what’s best is giving up my career for a man who⁠—”

“Who worships you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” There’s something almost wistful in her voice. “The way he looks at you…”

“Mom—”

“I have surgery in twenty minutes. We’ll have lunch next week. Somewhere nice—you can afford it now.”

She hangs up without a goodbye.

I set the phone down carefully. I don’t throw it and I don’t scream. I don’t even swat the fucking irises across the room, even though my hands are shaking with the need to destroy something.

“You okay?” Camille hovers in the doorway.

“Fine.”

“You’re crying.”

Am I? I touch my face. Yep. Tears.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s your mother.” She grabs tissues from the box on my desk. “So it’s definitely something.”

I take the tissue and blow my nose, racking my brain to try to find words that won’t sound pathetic. “She thinks I’ve won.”

“Haven’t you? Madison investment, clinic thriving, sexy Russian boyfriend⁠—”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever he is, it’s something.” She waves dismissively. “Point is, you’re winning.”

“No. According to her, I’ve won because I’ve ‘landed’ Stefan. The clinic doesn’t matter. My work doesn’t matter. I’m just another woman who traded up by kneeling down.”

“That’s—”

“It’s true. That’s what it is.”

“Don’t you dare let her ruin this for you, Liv.” Camille plucks out another tissue and starts dabbing at my face. “You’re not a gold-digger. You actually give a shit about your work, for one thing. And also, you’re not using him; you’re—” She stops.

“I’m what?” I say, as a knot of tension coils up painfully in my stomach. “I’m what, Camille? Say it. We’ve come this far.”

She winces. “Falling for him.”

I go pale. “I’m not⁠—”

“Girl, please. I wasn’t gonna go here, but since we’re on the subject… It’s just undeniable at this point, okay? You light up when he walks in a room. You check your phone every five seconds hoping he’s texted.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“And right now? You’re more upset that your mom reduced your relationship to a transaction than you are about her dismissing your career.” She raises an eyebrow. “That tells me everything.”

My phone vibrates. Camille grabs it before I can. As soon as she reads it, her face falls. “Holy fucking shit.”

“What?”

She turns the screen toward me. “Rebecca Walsh just got destroyed.”

The headline cries out: Fertility Fraud: Inside Rebecca Walsh’s Campaign of Sabotage.

I snatch the phone and read as fast as I can. The article is brutal. Screenshots of emails. Records of bribes. Former employees talking about her deliberately poaching clients.

But what stops my heart is the quote at the end.

From Stefan .

“ Dr. Olivia Aster represents everything Dr. Walsh fears—genuine compassion, medical brilliance, and an inability to be bought. While Walsh builds baby factories for profit, Olivia builds families with love. She honors every life she touches. Boston is lucky to have her.”

I read it three times. Four. Five. Each time, the words blur a little more.

Camille reads over my shoulder and whistles when she gets to the kicker. “That’s a hell of an endorsement.”

It’s more than that. It’s everything my mother has never said. Everything I’ve needed to hear. I didn’t know I was desperate for it until it was right there in black and white.

Medical brilliance.

Genuine compassion.

Lucky to have her.

“ He didn’t have to say that,” I croak. “The article would have destroyed Walsh without his quote.”

“But he did say it.”

“Yeah.” I trace his name on the screen. “He did.”

The irises mock me from across the room. My mother’s conditional love in botanical form. Congratulations on catching a man. Your actual accomplishments don’t matter.

But Stefan—Stefan who barely talks about feelings, who doesn’t even know how to voice the word “love”—he went on record. Put his name next to mine. Defended not just me but my work. My passion. My dreams.

The thing my own mother won’t do.

“You should call him,” Camille says.

“And say what?”

“‘Thank you? I love you? Please come home and rail me against the nearest flat surface?’”

“Camille!”

“What? I’m just saying what you’re thinking.”

She’s not wrong.

I pick up my phone. Type. Delete. Type again.

Finally, I settle on simple. Honest.

I know I have no right to ask, but come home tonight, Stefan. Please.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself.