Page 36 of Nine Months to Bear

I want to see Olivia Aster bend for me. Break. I want to hold her in my hands and ruin her.

You can’t hold everything in the palm of your hand.

My grandmother had a point—but then again, if Olivia was in my grasp, it would feel a fuck ton like “everything” to me.

I stroke myself to the image of her kneeling in front of me. Her name sneaks out as a heated whisper on my lips. “Olivia…”

Then I swear I hear her gasp.

15

OLIVIA

ONE HOUR EARLIER

I’ve got a bomb in my purse.

Not literally. This bomb is clear, plastic, cylindrical, and completely empty.

But therewillbe an explosion involved in filling it.

Ew.I’m disgusting even myself. I know I’m only making these jokes in my head because I’m nervous. Not even high school freshmen boys would find them funny, and to say they’d make my mom throw up in her champagne is dramatically understating the issue.

The point is that the specimen cup I’m carrying is occupying ninety-nine point nine percent of my attention. It’s a miracle I can even walk the straight line into the gleaming lobby of Safonov Holdings. I have to keep my eyes fixated on my feet just so I don’t trip over them and make an even bigger fool of myself than I already have.

The floor is no help in calming my nerves, though. It’s flawless marble, scrubbed and mopped until it might as well be a mirror.In all of the angles of my reflection that I can see, I look how I feel: utterly terrified.

Men in expensive suits nod as I pass. Their eyes linger a beat too long. Do they know why I’m here? They’re probably trained to smell desperation, to leap at it, tear at the throats of their hapless, helpless victims until they get what they need.

I gulp and pin my purse more tightly to my side. God forbid anyone sneak a peek and see what I’m bringing with me into this chauvinistic den of testosterone and capitalism.

The elevator doors ding open to reveal the glass doors to Stefan’s office suite. His name is embossed at eye level in minimalist silver lettering. No title needed. Everyone knows who rules this place.

I push through the doors. My pulse quickens as I approach his assistant’s desk. The woman is as polished as everything else in this building. I can almost see my reflection in her silver eyeshadow.

She looks up when she sees me standing there. I’m instantly girl-crushing on her sleek bob, without a hair out of place. I could shave my legs with the razor’s edge of her bangs. She looks like a sexy cyborg in haute couture. I couldn’t be less surprised that this is who Stefan has hired to guard his domain.

Her name tag readsMikayla.God, that’s sexy, too.

“Dr. Aster.” Her voice is cool, professional, unbothered. Perfectly in the line with the rest of her brand.

I grip the strap of my purse tighter, feeling the hard plastic of the specimen cup through the leather. I’ve transported dozensof these cups between labs and clinics, discussed their contents with countless clients. Why does this one feel radioactive?

“I’m here to see Stef—er, Mr. Safonov,” I manage. “Is he available?”

The woman’s threaded eyebrow arches a fraction. “You don’t have an appointment?”

Apparently, he didn’t tell his receptionist about my late-night text.

Or maybe he didn’t see it. I’m not sure why that thought didn’t occur to me until now. He didn’t even respond. Maybe he’s no longer interested? Maybe I took too long to decide, waffled too many times, and now, he’s moving on, and I’ll be left to sink with my sad ship, a failed captain to the very end.

I look helplessly to the shining wooden door behind her. Is he back there? Does he know I’m here? Can he hear how pathetic I sound?

I clear my throat as heat crawls up my neck. “We are supposed to meet. About the, uh… potential… investment.”

She studies me for a moment longer than necessary. Her expression doesn’t change but somehow still conveys entire paragraphs of judgment. Then she presses a button on her desk phone.

“Dr. Aster is here for you, sir.”