Page 131 of Nine Months to Bear

I look away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, please. You’re not torn up about the surrogacy. You’re torn up abouthim.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” She leans forward to make me look at her. “When’s the last time you thought about the clinic?Reallythought about it? Because all I see is a woman who can’t stop checking her phone, hoping for a text from a man who just called her an oven.”

My phone sits face-down on the counter. I haven’t checked it once.Because he hasn’t texted.

“It’s complicated.”

“Love always is.”

“I don’t love him.”

“Sure you don’t.” Camille’s voice drips sarcasm. “That’s why you look like someone stole your puppy. That’s why you’re hiding inhere instead of walking out that door. That’s why you’re about to throw up on my croissant.”

She’s not wrong. I barely make it to the sink when my stomach revolts again.

Camille holds my hair back while I heave. “Okay, either Safonov is literally toxic, or…”

“Camille.”

“How late are you?”

“Cami—”

“How. Late?”

I rinse my mouth and spit. “Two weeks.”

“Jesus, Liv.”

“It’s stress. The shooting, the pressure, everything. It’s just stress.”

“You’re a doctor, hon. You know better.”

I do. The symptoms are textbook. The timing is perfect. The irony is suffocating.

“Have you told him?” she asks.

“Told him what? That I might be carrying the child he paid for? The one I’m contractually obligated to provide? Oh, gee, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Finally getting his money’s worth from his glorified oven.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t reduce yourself to his worst words.” Camille hands me a paper towel. “You’re more than what he said in anger.”

“Am I? Because I can’t seem to remember what that is anymore.”

“Then let me remind you: You’re Dr. Olivia fucking Aster. You built a clinic from nothing. You help women achieve dreams. You stood up to your mother, to Walsh, to every asshole who tried to break you. One moody Russian douche bag doesn’t erase that.”

“This moody Russian douche bag owns me, Camille. Literally. I signed a contract.”

“Contracts can be broken.”

“Not this one. Not with him.”

“Why not?”

The honest answer sticks in my throat. Because despite everything—the cruelty, the control, the way he discarded me—I don’t want to leave.