All of it, false.
I look at Saint. His face is completely blank. Unreadable.
For just a second, a split second, I see something flicker in his eyes. Pain? Grief? Loss?
Then it's gone. The mask slips back into place.
"I see." His voice is cold. Detached. "Thank you, Doctor."
"I'd like to run some tests," Dr. Reeves continues. "To see if there's an underlying issue preventing conception?—"
"That won't be necessary." Saint stands. "We're done here."
I hold back a sob. What is he saying? I bite my lip trying not to sob.
"You're both young and healthy. Seven months of trying isn't unusual, but if you'd like?—"
"I said we're done." He looks at me. "Gemma. Let's go."
Five hours ago, I was pregnant. Now I'm not. How does that happen?
"Mrs. Marini?" Dr. Reeves' voice is gentle. "Would you like a moment?"
A moment. Like that would help. Like a moment could fix the fact that I'm broken. That everything's broken.
"No." I stand on shaking legs. "I'm fine."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Emmanuel drives. Saint stares out the window. I stare at my hands.
Not pregnant.
The words echo in my head.
Not pregnant.
Not useful.
Not worth keeping.
"We can try again," I say finally. My voice cracks. "We can do the testing. Whatever Dr. Reeves suggested. I'll submit to it. Whatever you need?—"
"No."
"Saint, please. We can try?—"
"There was never a baby, Gemma." His voice is harsh. "It was a faulty test. A mistake. Like everything else between us."
But I hear what he's not saying: If there had been a baby, maybe we could have been saved.
"Even if you got pregnant tomorrow, it wouldn't matter now. The damage is done."
"I don't understand?—"
"The captains met three days ago. Tomorrow, they vote officially. Marcello will be the new Don by week's end." He says it matter-of-factly. Like he's reporting the weather. "So whether you're pregnant or not, it is irrelevant."
"No." My hands are shaking. "No, we can fix this. We can?—"
