Page 141 of Nine Months to Bear

53

OLIVIA

I’m checking my phone for the tenth time when Camille smacks my hand. “Stop that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I argue.

“You’re vibrating like a freaking chihuahua in a thunderstorm.” She adjusts her hair in the reflection of the conference room door. “It’s making me nervous, and I don’t do nervous.”

Unfortunately, I do. My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing cotton balls. The water pitcher on the sideboard calls to me, but I don’t trust my hands not to shake and spill it all over the place. The last thing this situation needs is a wet crotch.

“Maybe we should reschedule,” I suggest.

“Are you insane?” Camille grabs my shoulders. “Jonathan Madison doesn’t reschedule. You get one shot with him, and this is it.”

“Right. One shot.” I smooth my pencil skirt for the hundredth time. “With the CEO of Madison Pharmaceuticals. Who could single-handedly save our clinic or?—”

“Or nothing. You’re going to nail this. We will not be dabbling in worst-case hypotheticals, ma’am. Capisce?”

The door opens. A man in his sixties enters, silver-haired and distinguished in a navy suit. But it’s his shoes that make me do a double-take.

Target sneakers. Bright white with neon green laces.

“Dr. Aster?” His smile reaches his eyes, which crinkle up with happy little crow’s feet. “Jonathan Madison.” He catches me gawking at the footwear and grins sheepishly. “Sorry about the shoes—my granddaughter says I need to be more ‘hip.’ I’m trying my best.”

The tension in my shoulders drops a fraction. “They’re very hip.”

“They’re ridiculous, but she’s seven, so it comes with the territory.” He shrugs and gestures for us to follow him in, then takes a seat behind the desk. “Tell me about your clinic.”

I launch into the spiel.

And, surprisingly, it goes… well? Twenty minutes in, and I’m actually enjoying myself. Jonathan asks real questions—about success rates, patient demographics, our approach to mental health support. His assistants take notes on tablets while Camille smoothly provides supporting documents.

“The personalized care model is impressive,” Jonathan says as I’m wrapping up. “Most clinics treat fertility like an assembly line.”

“Exactly! Yes!” I realize I’m shouting and try to moderate my best. “Er, yes, exactly—that’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid. Every patient has a unique journey and deserves unique attention. Cookie-cutter protocols don’t?—”

Then the door slams open.

And Rebecca Walsh sweeps in, looking like the Devil Wears Chanel with a razor cut bob sharp enough to slice throats.

“So sorry I’m late.” She’s not sorry at all. “Traffic wasmurder.”

My stomach drops to my discount heels.

“Dr. Walsh?” Jonathan looks confused. “I wasn’t aware you were joining us.”

“Oh, I’m not.” She perches on the edge of his desk. “I just thought you should see this before making any decisions about Dr. Aster here.”

She pulls out her phone. The screen fills with an article I haven’t seen yet.

The headline alone makes me want to vomit.Aster Fertility Solutions: A Baby Making Business Built on Sex.

“Interesting, no?” Rebecca’s voice drips honey-coated poison. “Apparently, Dr. Aster has been taking a veryhands-onapproach to fundraising.”

The room swims before my eyes. I grip the table edge to stay upright.

Jonathan’s assistants huddle around the phone, jaws dropping with each paragraph. One of them gasps. Another covers her mouth.