I know she's right. It's good advice. Smart advice. But it feels like admitting failure. Like saying I can't handle my own practice, my own life, my own anything.
"It means admitting I need help," I say quietly.
"Emma." Dr. Martinez leans forward. "You do need help. Asking for help isn't weakness. It's wisdom. You're growing a human while running a business. Nobody can do that alone. And if this merger gives you resources and reduces stress—take it. Your baby needs a healthy mother more than they need a martyr."
I flinch. A healthy mother, not a martyr.
"Now." She stands. "I want to see you back in four weeks. Keep taking the vitamins. Rest when you can. And please—tell your partner. You don't have to carry this alone."
She leaves me with a stack of pamphlets and a prescription for prenatal vitamins. I change back into my clothes, somehowkeeping the scarf on the entire time, and escape to my car before anyone else can call my name loudly across a waiting room.
I sit in the driver's seat, air conditioning blasting, staring at the pamphlets spread across my passenger seat.
"Your First Trimester" "Nutrition During Pregnancy" "Preparing Your Home for Baby" "What to Expect: The First Year"
This is happening. It's real. I'm pregnant and I have to tell Miles, and I have to decide about Preston, and I have to vote on Celtic Knot, and I have to finish the Shadow Strike case and?—
I'm out of pickles.
That's the thought that breaks through everything else. I'm having a complete breakdown in a doctor's parking lot, and my brain has decided the real crisis is a pickle shortage.
I start laughing. Then crying. Then laugh-crying while clutching pregnancy pamphlets in a car that still has empty pickle jars in the backseat.
My phone rings. Brennen.
I stare at it. I should let it go to voicemail. I should compose myself. I should literally do anything except answer this call right now.
I answer it.
"Emma, it's time." Brennen's voice is strained. "I need your vote or we lose the vineyard property. Please, I'm begging you?—"
"I can't make decisions right now." The words come out broken. "Brennen, I just—I can't—I have too much?—"
I'm full-on crying now. Not delicate tears. Ugly crying. The kind that makes your nose run and your breath hitch.
"Emma?" Brennen's voice shifts from frustrated to alarmed. "Are you crying? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
I look at the pamphlets strewn across my passenger seat. Everything needs to be decided now. The merger. Celtic Knot.My entire future. And I can't keep hiding from Miles. I can't keep carrying this alone.
"I need to call you back."
"Emma, wait?—"
I hang up before he can respond. Sit in the parking lot for ten minutes trying to breathe like Dr. Martinez taught me. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Repeat until you stop feeling like you're drowning.
It doesn't really work.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands. Stare at Miles' name in my contacts. My finger hovers over the call button.
No. Not a call. I'll break down completely if I hear his voice.
I text instead.
Me:Can you meet me somewhere? I need to talk to you. About everything.
The response is immediate.
Miles:Tell me where. I'm already in the car.
