I force a smile to match his. “You mean Stella? Yes, Lauren is much more … ” My mind races—Sweet, friendly, thoughtful, intelligent—“expeditious,” I finish, settling on something neutral, though my thoughts linger on how much more Lauren is to me than just efficient. Speaking of Stella, I make a mental note to call her. She should be having her baby around now.
“And that’s how you succeed,” Mr. Lee continues, standing and fastening his suit jacket. “Surround yourself with capable people. That’s what my father taught me, and it’s still working for me. I wouldn’t have this life otherwise.”
I rise to meet him, but instead of offering his hand, Mr. Lee bows respectfully, a gesture deeply rooted in his culture. I mirror his movement, bowing in return.
“We’ll be in touch,” he says with a smile before turning and walking toward the exit, his two bodyguards trailing behind.
As I watch him leave, the satisfaction of sealing the deal fades, replaced by the ache of missing Lauren. Every win feels hollow without her here, and I can’t shake the feeling that this empty space in my life will only grow until I get her back. The waitress returns, and I order a glass of whiskey. It should be champagne, but what’s the point of celebrating when I have no one to share it with? The most important project of my life, and it’s completely overshadowed by this constant weight pressing down on me. Lauren is the only person I want to celebrate with, the only one who could make this victory feel real. But instead, I sit here, drowning in the questions that refuse toleave me alone. I’ve exhausted every thought trying to understand what went wrong. I’ve gone through every alternative, every clue, trying to figure out what happened. At this point, I’m starting to think nothing really happened at all. Maybe Lauren just didn’t know how to end things with me. But if that’s true, why did she accept me that night? Why did she call me her Hades?
The thought of her is like a knife twisting in my chest. I love her, and this uncertainty, this silence—it’s cracking my heart in half.
A woman walks into the restaurant, pushing a stroller. The baby is fast asleep inside, and she offers me a soft smile as she passes. I return it, looking at the child, completely exhausted in the stroller. The sight reminds me of Stella. Without thinking, I pull out my phone and dial her number. She answers on the second ring.
“You’re late. I’ve already given birth,” Stella says, her usual bluntness coming through the phone.
I can’t help but smile. I’d almost forgotten how much fun we had together, how we became close by living through our sorrows side by side. Stella, always chasing her dream of becoming a mother, yet never finding the right person to make her happy. And me, drowning my feelings for Lauren in one-night stands with strangers.
“Congratulations, then,” I say, taking a sip of whiskey. “What’s the name?”
“Poppy,” she replies.
“Nice,” I say, genuinely meaning it.
“Yes, though I’ve hardly seen her,” she continues. “I’m still in the hospital. The delivery was complicated, and I’ve got a week of recovery ahead.”
“Which hospital?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
“St. Mary’s. Are you coming to visit?”
“Maybe,” I say, noncommittal, though the idea of seeing her feels like a momentary escape from my current mess.
Stella laughs softly. “Well, don’t wait too long. You’ll want to meet Poppy before she starts college.”
Hospitals have a way of feeling depressing, no matter the reason you’re there. Even for something as joyful as the birth of Poppy, there’s still that unsettling atmosphere. The sterile silence, the faint chemical smell, the hushed conversations in the hallways, the serious expressions on everyone’s faces—it all feels a little too heavy.
I walk down the corridor, holding a brown teddy bear in one hand and some “Happy Birthday” balloons in the other. The store didn’t have many options, and, technically, thisisPoppy’s first birthday, right? So maybe it fits.
I knock on the door twice and hear Stella’s voice from the other side.
“Come in,” she says, her tone flat but familiar.
I open the door slowly, half-expecting to see Poppy in the room, but it’s just us. Stella is sitting up in bed, looking tired but somehow still composed.
“Happy Birthday?” she says with an arched eyebrow, taking in the balloons.
I shrug, playing it off. “It’s all they had. Don’t expect too much from the hospital gift shop.”
Stella takes the teddy bear, gently stroking it with a tired hand. She looks completely drained—dark circles under her eyes and paler than I’ve ever seen her.
“Why are you still here?” I ask, concerned.
“I lost a lot of blood during the delivery,” she says, her voice calm but tense. “They want to make sure everything’s okay. Poppy was born a week early.”
I frown. “How serious is it?”
“It’s going to be fine,” she says, but there’s a strain in her voice. Quickly, she shifts the subject. “Now, talk to me about something boring, like the office. How’s Lauren doing?”
I let out a heavy sigh, pulling a chair up next to her bed.
