I open my mouth to protest—this is her appointment, her space—but Caleb’s voice cuts in smoothly. “I’ll be right outside.”
Morgan’s eyes flick between us, sharp and curious, but she doesn’t push. She just nods and heads inside.
The exam room is quiet and softly lit, all muted colors and the faint antiseptic smell of medicine. Morgan perches on the edge of the table while the nurse checks vitals and chats about cravings and sleep.
“Pickles and ice cream?” the nurse asks.
“No,” Morgan says. “Bagels and rage.”
The nurse laughs and steps out to get the doctor.
Morgan exhales and looks at me sideways. “Okay. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
She arches a brow. “Basia.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. My body feels warm in places it really shouldn’t in a hospital exam room.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Maybe I slept really well last night.”
Morgan’s grin turns slow and knowing. “Uh-huh.”
Before she can press, there’s a soft knock at the door.
A hospital aide steps in, pushing a small cart. On it sits a tall glass vase overflowing with white lilies and pale pink roses.
“Delivery for Morgan Cole,” she says cheerfully.
Morgan blinks. “Damien? This is so not his style.”
I frown. “That’s… sweet,” I say slowly, though something cold slides down my spine.
The aide sets the flowers on the counter and hands Morgan a small card. “Have a great appointment!”
As soon as the door closes, Morgan opens the card.
Her smile fades.
“What?” I ask.
She hands it to me without a word.
The handwriting is neat. Careful. And by now familiar.
We were torn from our mothers.
Existed only to fulfill the prophets’ greed.
My fingers go numb.
“That’s not Damien,” Morgan whispers.
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
My hand’s already on my phone, pulling up Caleb’s contact. It only rings once.
The door opens again—too fast—and Caleb fills the doorway, his presence like a pressure change in the room.
