Where I'm a divorced billionaire with a bitter ex-wife, an angry daughter, and a best friend I've betrayed.
Where the only thing I actually want is the one thing I can't have.
My phone buzzes one more time as I reach the lobby.
Samantha:Also, I need money for spring break. Mom says you’re paying.
I close my eyes and count to ten again.
Then I transfer five thousand dollars to her account, because it's easier than fighting.
Because everything in my life is a transaction.
Except Emma.
The car is waiting outside, and I slide into the back seat, my mind already on the dinner ahead. The councilman will want to talk about permits and zoning variances and community impact assessments. I'll want to talk about timeline and costs and return on investment.
We'll both pretend we're serving the public good while actually serving ourselves.
I look out the window as the car pulls into traffic, and I think about Emma in her apartment, surrounded by bottles of essential oils and dreams she's determined to build on her own. And I wonder when I’ll see her again.
Chapter 6
Emma
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and fake lavender air freshener, a combination that makes my stomach turn. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, filling out forms that ask increasingly invasive questions about my medical history, my family's medical history, whether I've ever had this condition or that.
I leave the "father's medical history" section blank.
Poppy sits beside me, her knee bouncing in that nervous way she has when she's trying to appear calm but is struggling.
She showed up at my apartment this morning with decaf coffee and a muffin I couldn't eat, and hasn't left my side since. I don't know what I did to deserve her, but I'm grateful for her every day.
"Emma Sullivan?" A nurse in purple scrubs appears in the doorway, holding a tablet.
I stand on legs that feel unsteady. Poppy stands with me, her hand finding mine, and together we follow the nurse down a hallway lined with informational posters about prenatal vitamins and healthy pregnancies.
The examination room is small and aggressively cheerful. Yellow walls. A poster showing fetal development week by week.An ultrasound machine in the corner that looks like something from a sci-fi movie.
"Go ahead and have a seat," the nurse says, gesturing to the examination table covered in crinkly paper. "Dr. Byers will be with you shortly. She'll want to do an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy and check on the baby’s development."
I nod, not trusting my voice. The nurse leaves, and the door clicks shut with a finality that makes my heart race.
"It's going to be okay," Poppy says, still holding my hand.
"You don't know that."
"I know you. And I know you're going to figure this out, no matter what the doctor says."
I want to believe her. Want to believe that I'm still the person who has always found a way to solve problems without asking for help.
But sitting here in this exam room, wearing a paper gown that doesn't quite close all the way, I feel about as far from that person as you can get.
The door opens again, and a woman in her forties enters, dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a white coat over navy scrubs.
"Emma?" she extends her hand, and I nod and shake it. Her grip is warm and firm.
She turns toward Poppy. "I'm Dr. Byers. And you must be?—"
