Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 62

62

As I drive to the clinic on autopilot, my mind is ping-ponging back and forth between the joy of landing the Mass General partnership and the hurt of Stefan walking out the door.

The steering wheel feels weird under my hands. Too mundane. It’s like I should be floating or something after the roller coaster strangeness of the morning.

The clinic is quiet when I unlock the door. Camille’s not here to greet me with her usual commentary about my sex hair or the hickey I definitely have on my neck. Right—she has a dentist appointment this morning. Root canal or something equally awful.

I flip on the lights and the waiting room comes to life. Everything looks exactly the same as yesterday, but it’s not.

We got the partnership. We’re having a baby. Stefan said he wants to try being together for real.

So why do I feel so unsettled?

I drop my purse on my desk and boot up my computer. Seventeen emails already. Three from Mass General’s legal team with preliminary contracts and one from my mother with the subject line “Heard the news!” because of course she already knows.

Nothing from Stefan.

Not that I expected anything. He’s dealing with whatever emergency Taras called about. That’s his job, his life. The whole “Russian mob boss” thing isn’t exactly a nine-to-five situation.

I open the first Mass Gen attachment, but the words blur together. Partnership agreement… fiscal responsibilities… patient care standards… I read the same sentence a bazillion times in a row before I sigh and look elsewhere.

My phone remains silent on the desk.

“Get it together, Aster,” I mutter to myself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

I try reading the contract again. I make it through two paragraphs before I’m once more checking my phone. Still nothing.

This is stupid. I’m acting like some clingy girlfriend who can’t handle her boyfriend having a job.

Except Stefan’s job involves people shooting at him. At us. That changes things, right? Surely? Doesn’t it?

I get up and walk to the window to straighten the orchids that don’t need straightening. One of them has a new bud forming.

Usually, that would make me happy—new growth, good luck, all that superstitious nonsense I pretend not to believe in. So why don’t I feel quite so thrilled?

“This is pathetic,” I tell the orchids.

They don’t respond. Rude of them, honestly.

I last another ten minutes before I crack. My fingers are typing before my brain catches up. Hey. Hope everything’s okay.

I stare at the message, then delete it. Too needy. Contracts from Mass Gen came through. Pretty dense reading.

Delete. Too businesslike.

Thinking about you.

Definitely delete. Burn it with fire, actually.

“Screw it,” I say to the empty office. “I’m going to go see him.”

I grab my purse and keys. The clinic can survive without me for an hour. The emails will still be there when I get back.

And I need to see him. Not because I’m clingy or needy or any of those things I swore I’d never be. But because this morning changed everything, and I need to know if he feels it, too. If walking out that door was as hard for him as watching him go was for me.

The drive to Safonov Holdings is easy but slow. I spend the entire time telling myself this is a bad idea. He’s working. He’s busy. He’s dealing with dangerous people doing dangerous things.

But I’m already in the parking garage, already walking through the lobby, already pressing the elevator button for his floor.

Mikayla looks up when I enter. Her expression doesn’t change—it never does—but something shifts in her eyes.

“Dr. Aster. We weren’t expecting you.”

“Is he in?”

She shakes her head. “Mr. Safonov is still out with Mr. Vasiliev.”

“Oh.” My stomach sinks a little. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No.”

Of course not. Mikayla probably knows exactly where he is and what he’s doing, but she’s not about to share that information with me.

“I can… Well, never mind. It’s fine; I’ll just come back later.”

“You’re welcome to wait in his office.” She gestures toward the heavy wooden door. “He shouldn’t be much longer.”

I hesitate. Waiting feels uber clingy. But I’m already here, looking desperate, so what’s another degree of pathetic?

“Thanks.”

I step inside. His office smells like him, which is a nice sort of consolation prize for the time being. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second.

The last time I was in here, we had sex on his desk. The memory makes my face heat up. God, we really have no self-control around each other.

I wander around the space, trailing my fingers along the bookshelf. Business texts, some Russian titles I can’t read, a few classics. Nothing surprising.

His desk is immaculate. Not a paper out of place. A trio of golden pens lined up perfectly parallel to each other. Even his computer monitor is positioned at an exact right angle to the desk edge.

“Control freak,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.

I drop into his leather chair. It’s ridiculously comfortable. The view’s nice, too. From here, I can see the whole city spread out through his floor-to-ceiling windows. All that power and possibility. This is Stefan’s vista every day—looking down on everything, controlling it all from up here.

I spin in the chair like a kid, then feel stupid and stop. My hand lands on the desk drawer handle. I shouldn’t snoop. It’s invasive and wrong and…

I pull it open.

More pens, of course. A spare phone charger. Breath mints. No smoking guns to be found.

The second drawer has files, all labeled with dates. I close it quickly. Those are definitely not my business.

The third drawer seems stuck. I tug harder—and it slides open to reveal a leather-bound journal with one word on the front.

OLIVIA.

Just that. Just my name.

My heart pounds as I lift it out. This is wrong. This is such a violation of privacy. I should put it back right now.

I open it instead.

The first page makes my stomach drop. It’s a list. My name at the top, then two columns underneath: Assets and Liabilities.

Under “Assets”:

• Harvard Medical degree

• Established clinic infrastructure

• Clean reputation (mostly)

• Maternal connection to medical establishment

• Desperate enough to accept terms

Under “Liabilities”:

• Stubborn

• Headstrong

• Insecure

• Mother issues

• Emotional decision-making

• Limited business acumen

• Bleeding heart tendencies

I read it again. Then a third time. Each word feels like a scalpel carving out a piece of my beating heart.

My hands shake as I turn the page. More notes, all in Stefan’s handwriting. Observations about me, clinical and detached and so cold that it takes my breath away.

Subject responds well to praise but crumbles under criticism. Likely stems from maternal relationship. Exploitable.

Strong ethical code but willing to compromise when cornered. See: surrogate situation.

Sexual attraction obvious. Can be leveraged.

Then I turn the page again. It’s an acquisition agreement, already drafted, just waiting for signatures. Transfer of Ownership of Aster Fertility Solutions to Safonov Holdings, LLC.

The terms are generous—he’d let me stay on as medical director, keep my staff, maintain the clinic name. But make no mistake: he’d own it. Own me.

The date on this one?

Yesterday.

Meaning that yesterday, when he was inside me, when his mouth was sealed to mine…

He was already planning to take everything.

I keep reading, even though each word feels like swallowing glass. There are financial projections showing how my clinic would fit into his “portfolio.” Notes about using it for money laundering—carefully cloaked, obscured, but I’m not stupid; I know now what he wants.

And then, at the very bottom of the stack, a single sheet of paper with one line:

If emotional manipulation fails, proceed with hostile takeover.

The journal slips from my numb fingers and lands with an ugly thump on the floor.

This whole time, every kiss, every touch, every whispered promise—all of it was pre-planned. I wasn’t falling in love. I was falling into a trap.

The office that seemed so impressive twenty minutes ago now feels like a cage. The windows aren’t showing me a world ripe for us to explore; they’re showing me how small I am from up here. How insignificant.

He said “we” this morning. Like we had a future.

What kind of future is this?

I stand on unsteady legs, leaving the drawers open. Let him know I was here. Let him know I found out.

The leather chair squeaks as I push it back. Such a sad, ordinary sound amidst this extraordinary betrayal.

I make it almost all of the way to the door before my legs give out. I lean against it, trying to breathe through the pain that’s not physical but feels like it might actually kill me.

Desperate enough to accept terms. That’s all I ever was to him. A desperate woman he could manipulate into giving him what he wanted. A clinic. A veneer of respectability. A ready, willing womb.

The baby. Oh, God, the baby.

I press my hand to my stomach. There’s life growing there, but now, it feels like another trap. Another bar in the cage Stefan built around me without me even noticing.

I straighten up, forcing my legs to work. Mikayla looks at me through the window, and I see it now: the hint of satisfaction in her eyes.

She knew. They all knew.

Everyone understood my place in Stefan’s empire except me.

Now, I know, too.