I turn and walk away. I can't look at the crash cart anymore.
I walk through the penthouse. It feels different now. The shadows seem deeper. The windows, once a symbol of my dominion over the city, now look like vulnerabilities. Sniper angles. Entry points.
I find Ivy in the kitchen.
She is standing at the island, reaching for the coffee machine.
"Don't," I say.
She freezes. Her hand hovers over the 'Brew' button. She turns to look at me. Her eyes are shadowed, defiant. She is wearing a silk robe I bought her, cinched tight at the waist.
"It’s decaf," she says.
"It still has trace amounts," I counter, walking over to her. I take the mug from her hand and pour the water into the sink. "Caffeine restricts blood flow to the placenta. It increases the risk of miscarriage."
"Silas," she says, her voice tight with frustration. "One cup of decaf is not going to kill the baby."
"I’m not taking that chance."
I open the cabinet above the machine. I take out the bag of coffee beans—imported, single-origin, her favorite.
I throw it in the trash compactor.
Ivy stares at me. Her mouth opens, then closes.
"You’re insane," she whispers.
"I am thorough."
I reach for the fruit bowl. I pick up an apple. I inspect it. It’s organic, washed, perfect.
"Eat this," I say, handing it to her.
"I want coffee."
"You get apples. And water. Alkaline water, pH balanced."
She takes the apple, but she doesn't bite it. She grips it like she wants to throw it at my head.
"I’m going to the studio," she says, turning on her heel.
"No," I say.
She stops. She turns back slowly. The air in the kitchen drops ten degrees.
"Excuse me?"
"The studio is off-limits," I state calmly.
"You promised," she hisses. "You said I could have the studio. You said it was mine."
"That was before," I say. "Paint fumes contain volatile organic compounds. Turpentine. Lead. Cadmium. They are neurotoxins, Ivy. If you breathe them, the baby breathes them."
"I use non-toxic solvents!" she argues, her voice rising. "I keep the ventilation on!"
"Ventilation fails. Filters clog." I cross the distance between us. I tower over her, using my height, my width, my shadow to encompass her. "You are not stepping foot in that room until the child is born."
"That’s nine months!" she screams. "You expect me to sit on the couch and stare at the wall for nine months?"
