Page 24 of Nine Months to Bear

Fantasy or not, he was right: I’m soaking wet.

I blink rapidly, my face flushed, heart racing.Fuck.

My office is empty. No Stefan Safonov pressing me against the wall. No hot mouth on my neck. Just me, all alone with my pathetic fantasy and a half-finished PowerPoint presentation that refuses to cooperate.

My mouse clicks echo in the empty office as I drag things a pixel left, then right. Not perfect. Still not perfect. My shoulders ache from hunching closer to the screen, but I can’t stop until they’re exactly right.

Perfection is the only acceptable outcome.

Come to think of it, I need to rewrite the whole slide. It’s poorly worded, every bit as frenetic and jumbled as my brain has been for days—weeks? And the font is too big. Maybe 10 point? No. Too small. 11. 12?

It doesn’t really matter, but then my mother’s voice slices through my thoughts:Sloppy work is worse than no work at all, Olivia.

The memory comes with the phantom scratch of expensive paper under my eight-year-old fingers, the tap-tap-tap of her nail on each crooked letter of my penmanship.

My phone pings again. I almost forgot it’s what pulled me out of my Stefan Safonov daydream in the first place.

I’ve gotten three texts from my mother in the last hour. The latest is a photo from the gala—me and Stefan between the ice sculptures, his hand at my waist.Have you seen Stefan Safonov again? He has connections at the hospital. Someone like that could help you.

Even my mother is on Team Stefan. Go figure.

My eyes flick to the clock in the corner. 8:47 A.M. The presentation isn’t until two, but my stomach clenches anyway.

Early is on time; on time is late; late is— My nails catch on my blazer. My perfect French manicure was wrecked yesterday afternoon, ragged edges from where I dug them into my palms during the Chopard meeting. That’s another hundred dollars shot. At least my cuticles aren’t bleeding.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to steady the surge of panicked thoughts swirling in my brain. Everything is wrong. The presentation, my nails, mylife.

I inhale deeply for an eight count, but as I’m exhaling, my phone rings yet again.

This time, I recognize the ringtone. It’sPerfect Dayfrom theLegally Blondesoundtrack, my own personal inside joke since my cousin Jimmy made his parents proud by becoming a lawyer.

Thank God for that. The only reason I can afford his counsel is because it’s free.

I’d pay him if I could, of course. He’s smart as a whip and has never steered me wrong. Especially when it comes to the rumor mill. He’s the one who warned me—not early enough to make a difference, but he still gets points for trying—that Dr. Walsh was planning to steal everything I’d worked for. But he works late nights and never calls this early.

Something must be wrong.

“Hello?” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can continue fixing these godforsaken bullet points.

“Yo, Liv! Just checking in. How’s your morning going?” His voice is artificially bright, like someone’s holding him at gunpoint, forcing him to sound cheerful.

“Good until you called,” I lie. “It’s early. What’s wrong?”

“Can’t a cousin just call to say hi? Maybe I wanted to hear about that gala. My mom said you looked stunning.”

I’m not the only one lying. I know for a fact that Aunt Shari texted my mom a picture of me from the event to tell her my dress looked a size too small. Also, I should apparently see a dermatologist about the freckles on my shoulders. The word “pre-cancerous” was tossed around.

“Jimmy,” I sigh, “be real with me. You’re the hospital’s corporate counsel. You’re calling me hours before my presentation to the board. Either tell me what you know or stop wasting my time.”

There’s a pause, followed by a deep sigh. “Fine.” His voice has that careful tone now. The one people use around terminal patients. “I just thought you should know… Walsh has been taking Brian Thompson’s wife to private consultations.”

Brian Thompson is the president of the hospital board and the world’s biggest “Wife Guy.” He’s basically Borat in every conversation,My wifethis andMy wifethat. Walsh knows that as well as I do—the difference is, she used it to her advantage.

“What kind of private consultations?” I ask.

“You know his wife is into all that hippie bullshit. Walsh is probably giving her free sound bath meditation sessions and polished rocks she found in her backyard for aura cleansing. I don’t know all the details. All I do know is… well, shit, I don’t even… Look, Liv, the board is pretty much decided. They want to cancel your presentation today.”

My pen is halfway across the room before I register throwing it. It hits my orchids, which flop like they’re outraged by the insult.