Chapter 2

A seven-month induced labor isn't over with a single shot.

Dr. James said the fetus had been dead too long. Infection or hemorrhage could kill me at any moment.

Once all the pre-op prep was done, a nurse slipped a cervical-softening tablet inside me, then turned and closed the door of the room. I'd braced for pain. I hadn't known it would be like this.

At eleven that night, the contractions started.

The early ones I could bear.

When the third wave hit, I bit down on the pillowcase, afraid I'd scream.

In the small hours there were no gaps between the pains. My belly twisted and wrung itself over and over.

The pressure in my abdomen was too much, and my stomach started bleeding again. I turned my head and brought up dark blood and bile.

"Ms. Larson, you'll feel better if you cry out."

The nurse wiped my mouth, trying to comfort me.

"Really, everyone does. No one's going to laugh at you."

I shook my head.

Because I knew that the moment I let a sound out, I'd lose hold of everything.

The pain blurred my mind until I saw my mother in her apron, ladling coffee for me through the steam.

But then I heard her say,

"You just take care of yourself, don't get in the way of Grant's work…"

In the room next door, a man kept telling his wife, over and over,

"I'm here, sweetheart, don't be scared, I'm right here."

A little after one in the morning, a message came from Grant Mason:

【Dinner with an investor tonight, not coming back. Stop using something as inefficient as divorce to test my limits.】

I pressed the screen dark and threw the phone to the far side of the pillow.

The bigger his career got, the more everything I did became, in his words, inefficient.

At four in the morning, I finally delivered the baby.

When the nurse had finished, she asked me quietly,

"Do you want to take a look?"

I shook my head. I didn't dare. I was afraid that if I looked, I'd be trapped in that image and never get out.

She turned to go. I called her back.

"Wait. Was it a boy or a girl?"

The nurse said, low,

"A girl."

I closed my eyes, and hot tears slid down past my temples into the pillow.

My girl. If she could have grown up, there was one thing I would have taught her:

【If you're going to love, love yourself a little more.】

They wheeled me back to the room and hung a drip to stop the bleeding.

As the nurse adjusted the flow, she said,

"Ms. Larson, rest for now. An oncologist will schedule a consultation later to evaluate your follow-up treatment plan."

After daybreak I opened my phone and saw someone in the company group had reposted something from Nora Henson's social media.

The photo was of a private dining room, seven or eight glasses on the table:

【Taken such good care of. Thank you, Mr. Mason. My stomach really can't drink anymore.】

A coworker had commented underneath:

【Mr. Mason is so thoughtful】

I stared at those words for a long time.

I didn't need to have been at that dinner last night to know how Grant would have answered:

"Secretary Henson isn't well. Special circumstances, special treatment."

After it ended he'd probably dropped her off on the way, telling her in the car,

"Go in for another checkup tomorrow. You can't let a stomach bug drag on."

For the efficient Secretary Henson, his patience was always plentiful.

Sunlight slanted through the window onto the blanket.

And all at once it came clear to me.

I didn't have many days left. I never wanted to spend another minute of them thinking about him.