“I think you should eat something.”
As if we’re being bugged, Svedka appears at the door. “You want to eat?”
Bella nods. “Maybe a sandwich? Do we have cheese?”
Svedka nods and exits.
“Does she have you on a baby monitor?”
“Oh most likely,” Bella says.
She sits up farther now, and I see that she’s bleeding. There is a dark crimson stain on her gray pajamas. “Bella,” I say. I point. “Stay still.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s no big deal.” But she looks woozy, a little bit nervous. She blinks a few times rapidly.
Ever alert, Svedka returns. She rushes to Bella, pushes up her pajamas, and, as if she were a clown, pulls gauze and ointment from her sleeve. She replaces Bella’s bandages with fresh white wrappings. All new.
“Thank you,” Bella says. “I’m fine. Really.”
A moment later, the door opens. Aaron comes into the bedroom. His arms are laden with bags—errands, gifts, groceries. I see Bella’s face light up.
“Sorry, I couldn’t stay away. Should I make Thai or Italian or sushi?” He drops his bags and bends down and kisses her, his hand lingering on her face.
“Greg cooks,” Bella says, her eyes still locked into his.
“I know,” I say.
She smiles. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”
I think about the pile of paperwork I have, Aldridge’s email. “I think I’m going to head out. You two enjoy. You might want to put on some armor before entering the kitchen,” I say. I look toward the door at Svedka, who is scowling.
As I gather my things, Aaron climbs into bed with Bella. He gets on top of the covers, still in jeans, and he gently shifts her so she’s in his arms. The last thing I see when I leave is his hand on her stomach—gently, tendering, touching what lies beneath.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s Monday morning. 8:58 a.m. Aldridge’s office.
I’m sitting in a chair, waiting for him to return from a partner meeting. I’m wearing a new Theory suit with a silk high-necked camisole underneath. Nothing frivolous. All severity. I’m tapping my pen to the corner of my folder. I’ve brought all our recent deals, the success I’ve helped and in some cases overseen.
“Ms. Kohan,” Aldridge says. “Thank you for meeting me.”
I stand and shake his hand. He has on a custom Armani three-piece suit with a pink-and-blue shirt and matching pink-trimmed detail. Aldridge loves fashion. I should have remembered that.
“How are you?” he asks me.
“Good,” I say, measured. “Fine.”
He nods. “Lately I’ve been noting your work. And I must say—”
I can’t bear it. I leap in. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been distracted. My best friend has been very sick. But I’ve brought all my case work to the hospital and we’re still on schedule with the Karbinger merger. Nothing has changed. This job is my life, and I’ll do whatever I can to prove that to you.”
Aldridge looks puzzled. “Your friend is sick. What’s wrong?”
“She has ovarian cancer,” I say. No sooner are the words out than I see them, sitting on the table between us. They are bulking, unruly, bleeding. They ooze all over everything. The documents on Aldridge’s desk. His gorgeous Armani suit.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he says. “It sounds serious.”
“Yes.”
