“Those are some fighting words. We are here for you, Madison. Let us know if you need some help teaching this witch a lesson!”
Yikes,I thought.Guess I should have figured that would come back and bite me in the ass.I tried to shake it off and remember that the opinions of a bunch of Madison fans did not matter to me in the slightest. I’d taken a stand against her, and I refused to regret it.
But … what did that person mean when she said “what Madison has gone through trying to have a baby” ? Could she not have children of her own? A small wave of guilt crept over me. Is that why she was lashing out? As a woman in my mid-thirties, I had plenty of friends who’d suffered through problems conceiving.But even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean she gets to harass me like this—or raise my child.
I noticed a message request in my inbox from someone I didn’t recognize. Out of habit, I clicked.
“I swear to God, I will find you, and I will END you, if you don’t knock this off and admit to yourself that Madison is obviously the better mother for this child. You are pathetic and a poor excuse for a human being.”
Okay, now I was feeling sick to my stomach. I read it again.
Was that an actual threat? I clicked on the sender’s profile and gasped when I saw who it was—Nora Clark. Since Madison’s last name was Clark, I was pretty sure this was her mother.
Great job, Savannah. Now you have both Madisonandher mom gunning for you. So much for staying quiet and making her look like the unreasonable one.
I slapped my phone down on my nightstand, pulled the covers over my head, and cried myself to sleep.
CHAPTER11
IWAS GRATEFULFORall the distractions Mom provided throughout the weekend. In particular, she got me thinking about something I hadn’t allowed myself to yet—buying things for my baby. While out shopping for something to make for dinner, I allowed her to drag me into a cute little baby boutique near the grocery store.
I wandered the racks, fingering the impossibly soft baby blankets, sweaters, and onesies. It gave me a strange feeling of both anxiety and warmth. I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready to buy anything for my baby just yet—especially since I was still in credit card jail.
Mom came up behind me and put her hand on my back. “You’ll get lots of cute outfits for the baby when we throw you a shower,” she said. “But I always say,youshould pick out the outfit your baby comes home from the hospital in.”
She led me over to a rack of gender-neutral outfits in shades of lemony yellow and mint green. On hanger after hanger hung adorable sets of matching onesies, hats, booties, mittens, and burp cloths.
“Sweetheart, you are going to thrive as a mother. I just know it,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom. That means a lot,” I said as I held up a tiny hoodie with bunny ears.
My heart swelled at the thought of picking out something special for my baby that came just from me. I didn’t feel ready to buy anything yet, but maybe I would soon.
As we were baking some banana bread Sunday morning, my phone chimed with a text. The mere sound sent my pulse pounding; I was starting to hate my phone. Thankfully, it was from Meredith.
Our meeting got pushed back an hour. See you at Alto a little before 7:30.
Got it, thank you,I texted back.
I had packed a change of clothes so I could head straight to the client meeting from Mom’s. I washed and blow-dried my hair, and twisted it into a low bun at the nape of my neck. For my outfit, I’d chosen one of my loose, brightly colored blouses and paired it with a black suit blazer, stretchy black maternity slacks, and black heels. A little makeup, a dab of Mom’s perfume, my favorite pair of gold butterfly earrings, and I was ready to go.
The Alto Lounge, where we were meeting, was one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. Though it had an attractive bar that was open to the public downstairs, those who paid the steep annual membership fee were allowed on the top floor, which featured wall-to-ceiling glass windows on all four sides, looking out over the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. I had only seen photos of the sleek, low-lit members lounge before, which showed plush velvet booths, deep leather chairs, and impeccably dressed waiters tending to your every desire. I was looking forward to seeing behind the curtain with my own eyes.
I found a parking spot on the street around the corner from the club and walked in right at seven-fifteen, proud of myself for being early. I approached the podium in the corner of the bar,which blocked the entrance to the staircase up to the lounge. An attractive man with what I thought sounded like a French accent asked if he could help me.
“Thank you, I’m a little early. I’m here for a seven-thirty meeting with the Blackwell Agency and Pedro Torres’s team,” I replied, my body tingling at how cool it felt to say those words.
“Oh—I believe you’re late,” the man said with a frown. “They’ve been up there since six-thirty.”
My eyes widened. “What? No, that can’t be right. Our meeting is at seven-thirty.”
The man frowned again and opened a thick, leather-bound portfolio that sat on the podium. All the while, my heartbeat lurched in my chest.
“He’s probably meeting with another agency before his meeting with Blackwell,” I offered.
The man slid his finger down a list until it stopped at the line he’d been looking for. “No, it’s right here. Blackwell Marketing Agency, six-thirty. Meredith Blackwell and her assistant checked in quite a while ago.”
No. This is not happening.
