Page 147 of Nine Months to Bear
“My… assets?”
“Don’t play dumb, Olivia. It’s unbecoming.” Ice clinks against glass—she’s drinking. “You’ve attached yourself to one of thewealthiest men in Boston. The clinic becomes irrelevant at that point.”
“The clinic is not?—”
“Oh, please. We both know AFS is a vanity project. Bleeding money, constantly on the verge of collapse…” Another sip. “But none of that matters now. Safonov will take care of everything.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “I don’t need him to take care of?—”
“You’ve certainly made a mess of things up until now, haven’t you?” she interrupts. “No more of that. You’ll be set for life if you play your cards right.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not trying to be ‘set for life.’ I’m trying to build something meaningful.”
She actually laughs, though this one sounds like she means it. “Olivia, you’re playing Pretend Doctor with other people’s eggs and sperm. It’s hardly brain surgery.”
The words hit exactly where she aims them. Always do.
“It matters to my patients,” I insist as angry tears start to prick my eyes.
“Your patients will find other clinics when yours inevitably folds. But Safonov? Men like that don’t come along twice.” Her voice drops, almost confidential. “Don’t screw this up with your pride, dear.” She sighs like I’m exhausting her. “You’ve already won, darling. You’ve got him publicly claiming you, defending you, investing in you. Now, just maintain it. Keep him happy. Keep him interested.” She sips again and smacks her lips. “And for God’s sake, don’t get fat. Rich men have options.”
I stare at the irises. They’re already starting to wilt at the edges, I notice. Mom must not have paid for the premium ones.
“So that’s what the flowers are for? Congratulating me on landing a rich man?”
“I’m congratulating you on finally making a smart choice.” Her tone shifts, becomes almost gentle. “I know I’m hard on you, Olivia. But it’s only because I want what’s best.”
“And what’s best is giving up my career for a man who?—”
“Who worships you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” There’s something almost wistful in her voice. “The way he looks at you…”
“Mom—”
“I have surgery in twenty minutes. We’ll have lunch next week. Somewhere nice—you can afford it now.”
She hangs up without a goodbye.
I set the phone down carefully. I don’t throw it and I don’t scream. I don’t even swat the fucking irises across the room, even though my hands are shaking with the need to destroy something.
“You okay?” Camille hovers in the doorway.
“Fine.”
“You’re crying.”
Am I?I touch my face. Yep. Tears.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s your mother.” She grabs tissues from the box on my desk. “So it’s definitely something.”
I take the tissue and blow my nose, racking my brain to try to find words that won’t sound pathetic. “She thinks I’ve won.”
“Haven’t you? Madison investment, clinic thriving, sexy Russian boyfriend?—”
“He’snotmy boyfriend.”
“Whatever he is, it’s something.” She waves dismissively. “Point is, you’re winning.”
