The nurse might as well have tossed a bucket of gasoline over fire. The woman goes absolutely crazy. Spittle flies from her mouth, and her thick neck and cheeks go a deep shade of red even as the rest of her stays fish-belly white.
Another nurse comes up, fifty-something, and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m very sorry, sir. I know you’ve been waiting a long time. Can you come with me for a moment?”
My gut tightens. I can’t read her expression, but it’s got to be bad.
I follow her down a long hallway. My feet feel like lead. I think of all the comforting words I need to say to Paige. “I’m so sorry” seems pathetically inadequate.
We come to the end of the hall and the nurse opens the door. I walk in, ready for some serious consolation action, then stop.
The room is empty. There are two cheap plastic chairs and a rectangular Formica table. No windows. As I make a slow circle in the center, my brows crease together. The place looks like something out of a spy flick—a torture room where the villain attempts to beat the truth out of the hero. All it needs is a lamp swinging over one of the chairs, casting dramatic shadows.
“It might be better if you wait here. More privacy. I’m sorry we don’t have someplace nicer, but we’re overflowing and understaffed right now.”
“Where’s Paige?”
“Paige?”
“My fiancée. Where is she?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll check.”
She turns, about to leave, then pauses. “Would you like some ice?” She indicates her lip with a sympathetic look.
“If you don’t mind. Sure.”
It doesn’t take long before she returns with the ice and cleans the crust of blood and other gunk off my lip. Her touch is professional, which I appreciate. I don’t have the energy or patience to deal with stalkerish behavior. And fan-stalkers are everywhere.
She gives me the bag of ice. “Just hold it on there. Should make you feel better.”
“Thanks. And can you let me know as soon as you get an update on Paige?”
“Of course.”
When the door closes behind her, I numb my lip with the ice and will Paige and the baby to be all right.
* * *
Paige
Ryder’s here. In the building.
One part of me wants him by my side, but another doesn’t. We haven’t talked about—much less resolved—anything. This isn’t even his baby, but he held my hand in the ambulance and whispered soothing words I couldn’t comprehend over the roaring in my head. I’d rather not put him in a position where he feels forced into providing me with empty words of comfort and meaningless pats on my shoulder…but I still want him here.
The clock on the wall says it’s only been hours, but everything seems to have happened over years. I hate being alone with nothing but my fears, anxiety stretching every second into something interminable.
I tense as a doctor finally walks in with a thick folder and chart.
He’s surprisingly young, with gel-spiked black hair and dark eyes. A hoop hooks around the highest point of his left eyebrow. Sniffing, he runs a finger under his nose and flips through the papers.
Except for the lab coat, he looks nothing like a doctor should. Sweat slickens my palms. “Is everything all right?” I ask, unable to wait a second longer for information on my baby.
His head snaps up. “What? Yes. Yes, your baby is fine.”
Sagging with relief, I lay my hands over my belly. Thank god.
“By the way, I’m Dr. Min. I don’t recall if I introduced myself.”
I give him a neutral smile. Even if he did, I probably wouldn’t remember. Everything since I got out of Ryder’s Ferrari with my bloody skirt is sketchy, like I experienced it through a dense fog.
He continues, “But you should still be careful. Your blood pressure is a little high for my liking. That and this incident—plus your weight—make this a high-risk pregnancy.”
High risk. The words echo in my ears as I stare at the doctor. He’s not the first medical professional to tell me to watch my weight, but it’s the first time I’ve had somebody tell me it might harm the baby. I try to speak, but my mouth is so dry I can barely vocalize. I clear my throat and try again. “Are you telling me I should diet?”
He gives me a look. “I know how futile it is to tell a pregnant woman she needs to diet. Hard enough normally, and a lot worse when you have cravings. But next time, you should consider losing some weight before getting pregnant.”
I cringe inwardly at the matter-of-fact way he speaks. I know it’s nothing personal, but somehow I feel like I’ve failed my baby. I stroke my stomach guiltily.
“Take it easy, and make an appointment to see your regular doctor as soon as possible. Dr. Silverman, right?”
I nod.
“She’s good.” He grins unexpectedly, and suddenly looks like a teenage boy. “Any questions?”
I look down, then raise my eyes to meet the doctor’s. “Did you…see my fiancé outside?”
“No. But I’ll ask a nurse. Anything else?”
I shake my head.
He leaves, his step brisk. I’m sure he has hundreds of other patients.
I pull up my phone and text Ryder.
Sorry it was such a long wait. I’m done. Ready to go?
I wait a while, but no response. I text him again just in case.
More time, and still nothing. I know he has his phone; he used it to call nine-one-one earlier.
A hole grows in my chest. Did he just…go home? I asked him to wait outside even though I knew he wanted to come in with me. To be honest, I would’ve preferred that he be there for the consultation. But there’s this small part of me that doesn’t want to be dependent on him. He’s only marrying me so he can get his grandfather’s painting.
And it’s only going to be for a year.
I could contact my stepsister, but that would create problems. I still don’t know what to tell her about my scandalous situation with the sex tape. And I haven’t told her about my pregnancy. I don’t want to say a word about it, not even to her, since Ryder and I are planning to make an announcement after the wedding.
There’s a quick knock, and a uniformed chauffeur I’ve never seen before walks into the room. He’s in a black suit with a heavily starched white shirt and a pair of white gloves. Silver roots show at the temples, and the left side of his face is slightly darker than the right. “Ms. Johnson,” he begins, his voice courteous. “My name is Perry Finds. Mr. Reed sent me to pick you up.”
“Oh.” I guess Ryder sent him for me. “You didn’t happen to bring me a change of clothes, did you?”
He pauses. “I’m afraid not, miss.”
“I…um…soiled my skirt.” I clear my throat.
“Of course,” he says, as though bleeding all over one’s skirt is an everyday occurrence. He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me. “Will this be acceptable to cover it up?”
Startled, I look at the proffered garment and him. He doesn’t look any less formal without his jacket, and I feel awkward, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Thank you.” I take his jacket. The fabric isn’t rich, but it’s not cheap either.