Page 21 of Nine Months to Bear
But my mind is a wasteland of bad options and worse alternatives. I could declare bankruptcy, close the clinic, and try to salvage what’s left of my reputation. I could sell to a medical conglomerate that would strip out everything that makes us special. I could crawl back to my old mentor and beg for a research position.
Or I could pick up the phone and call Stefan Safonov.
The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome, but once it takes root, it refuses to go away.
I try anyway. I spend hours poring over spreadsheets, willing the numbers to change and make my problems disappear, when the bell above the clinic’s entrance jingles. I don’t even look up, too ashamed to look whoever it is—Camille, my mother, Ms. Chopard back for round two—in the eyes.
“We’re closed,” I mumble.
“Good,” a man growls in reply. “Fewer witnesses for what’s about to happen.”
10
OLIVIA
My head jerks up.
Stefan leans against the doorframe, holding a cardboard drink carrier with two coffees in one hand. The light from my lamp is glinting off his Rolex, as if I needed the reminder that we exist in two extremely different financial realities.
He’s swapped his usual bespoke suit for black jeans and a merino sweater that hugs his shoulders. The casual look is somehow more dangerous—a wolf in literal sheep’s clothing.
Very, very expensive sheep’s clothing.
I fight the urge to wipe away the mascara I’m sure is dripping down my cheeks. There may have been tears on and off for the last two hours; I’ll neither confirm nor deny. Instead, I stare at Stefan, trying to decide if he’s real or if I’ve conjured him from my darkest thoughts.
“I brought coffee,” he says unnecessarily, lifting the tray in my direction. “Though judging by your face, perhaps vodka would be more appropriate.”
“How did you get in here?”
He nods toward the flickering camera above the door. “If you’re asking how I got past your top-notch security, the dial-up webcam taped to a mop handle didn’t put up much of a fight.”
What I meant was,Why are you here? How did you know where to find me? Why do you even know who I am?
I stand too fast, my chair screeching against the linoleum. “What do you want?”
It’s the fourth question on my running list, but it sums up the others well enough.
Stefan sets a latte on my desk. The smell of cinnamon and espresso wafts up, making my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since last night.
“To congratulate you,” he says.
I slide my stack of papers into a neat pile, trying to hide the negative balance at the bottom of every column. He can’t be serious.
“For what?”
“For creativity.” He prowls around the room, trailing fingers over the fertility diagrams on the walls. His touch is almost sensual, as if he’s caressing the peeling laminate. “Suggesting a client pawn her daughter to pay for the sibling? Bold. Innovative. Highly unethical, of course, but, well…”
My breath hitches in dumbfounded shock. “You— How— I mean…”
“I do my research very thoroughly, Dr. Aster.” He picks up the uterus stress ball from my desk, turning it over in his large hands with disturbing familiarity.
My face burns. I want to hurl the latte at his smug jaw. Instead, I take a scalding sip. Warmth and spice explode on my tongue. It’s delicious, which only makes me hate him more.
“Get out. I’m really not in the mood.”
Stefan ignores me and reaches for Ms. Chopard’s abandoned file. “You’re on the right track,lisichka. Don’t give up now. You’ll find me a surrogate.”
“I won’t do a damn thing for you.” I hurl the words at him, hoping they’ll stick. Hoping they’ll become true.
