Page 67 of Say You're Mine

It's risky. Insane, even. But as I feel another painful twinge in my belly, as I think of my child growing up under Elaine's poisonous influence, I know I have to try.

The moment shatters as Elaine's voice, saccharine-sweet and dripping with venom, carries up the stairs. "Cara, darling! Where are you hiding?"

I smooth my features into a mask of bland compliance. "In here, Elaine."

She sweeps into the room, a vision in Chanel and pearls. Her smile is sharp enough to draw blood. "There you are! I thought we might have a little chat. Woman to woman."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Elaine perches on the edge of the bed, her perfectly manicured hand coming to rest on my knee. It takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch away.

"I know this transition has been... difficult for you," she begins, her voice a study in false sympathy. "But I want you to know that I only have your best interests at heart. And the baby's, of course."

"Of course," I echo, the words tasting like shit on my tongue.

Elaine's grip on my knee tightens, her nails digging in ever so slightly. "I'm so glad you understand. Now, I have some wonderful news! Dr. Whitaker has agreed to oversee your prenatal care personally. Isn't that marvelous?"

The room spins, nausea rising in my throat. Dr. Whitaker - the name means nothing to me, but the gleam in Elaine's eyes tells me everything I need to know. This isn't about my health or the baby's. This is about control.

"That's... that's not necessary," I stammer, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I'm already seeing Dr. Chen, and she's been wonderful-"

"Oh, but I insist," Elaine cuts me off, her tone brooking no argument. "Dr. Whitaker is the best in his field. You and the baby deserve nothing but the best care, don't you agree?"

It's not a question. It's a threat, thinly veiled but unmistakable.

I nod, hating myself for the weakness. "When... when is the appointment?"

Elaine's smile widens, triumphant. "This afternoon, actually. I took the liberty of clearing your schedule."

As she sashays out of the room, I curl in on myself, one hand protectively cradling my belly. The baby kicks, as if sensing my distress.

"It's okay," I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince – the baby or myself. "We're going to be okay."

But as the hours tick by, bringing me closer to my appointment with this unknown doctor, I can't shake the feeling that we're anything but okay.

The ride to Dr. Whitaker's office is interminable, each mile stretching into an eternity of dread. Elaine chatters incessantly beside me, her voice a grating counterpoint to the sleek purr of the Mercedes' engine.

"You'll love Dr. Whitaker," she gushes, as if we're discussing a new salon rather than the man who holds my baby's fate in his hands. "He has such a way with... special cases."

I bite my tongue, tasting copper. Special cases. Is that what I am now? What June was?

The clinic is all gleaming chrome and sterile white, a monument to modern medicine that does nothing to quell the unease roiling in my gut. As we're led to a private examination room, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into a trap.

Dr. Whitaker is nothing like I expected. He's young, almost unsettlingly so, with a boyish face and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's something cold and calculating in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Mrs. Deveaux, always a pleasure," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "And you must be Cara. I've heard so much about you."

I force a smile, hating the way my hand trembles as I shake his. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Whitaker."

He gestures for me to sit on the examination table, his movements precise and controlled. "Let's see how this little one is doing, shall we?"

As he begins the ultrasound, I can't help but marvel at the image on the screen. Our baby, perfect and beautiful, their tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings.

"Excellent," Whitaker murmurs, his tone clinical and detached. "Good size, strong heartbeat. But given the... family history, we'll want to run some additional tests."

My blood runs cold. "What kind of tests?"

He smiles, all false reassurance and oily charm. "Nothing to worry about, just some genetic screenings. And perhaps we should discuss some preventative measures. A mild course of mood stabilizers, nothing too invasive."

Panic claws at my throat. "No," I say, sitting up abruptly. "No, I don't want any medication. The baby is healthy, you said so yourself."

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