Page 98 of Nine Months to Bear
Which is why I quickly step out into the crisp afternoon air. Distance, clarity—those things are severely lacking as of late. I need to find them in a hurry.
I count my breaths and my steps across the parking lot. Anything to gather myself, to put my game face on.
By the time I enter the workspace, I’ve forced myself back into Dr. Aster Mode—composed, professional, in control. I arrange my materials on the table and try not to think about the man watching from the street below.
I’ve just set up my presentation on the laminate table in front of me when the glass door of the office space opens as the second hand flicks over the twelve. Not even a second late. I like that.
Genevieve ducks her head and removes a light scarf from around her head, revealing stock straight gray hair and skin that makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be shielding myself from the sun every time I’m outside. At the very least, it’s a good reminder that I need to add something with SPF to my morning routine.
Everything about her is dripping with wealth and refinement, like she has access to stores that the rest of us peasants couldn’t even dream of, much less afford. She settles into her chair, purse on her lap, and crosses her legs like a ballerina.
“Dr. Aster,” she greets pleasantly. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”
I try to improve my posture to match hers. “My pleasure, Mrs.—” I scan her report. “I’m sorry, my assistant didn’t write down a last name.”
“Oh, please call me Gen,” she says warmly. “Just Gen is fine.”
I don’t think we’re on nickname terms yet, but whatever makes her happy. I need this client.
“It’s my pleasure, Gen,” I reply. There’s something familiar about her bone structure, though I can’t place it. “I’ll be honest, I’m intrigued by your interest in both fertility treatments and becoming a potential investor.”
“My friend on the hospital board, Dr. Heller, spoke so highly of your work that, whether treatments are possible for me or not, I’d like to become involved in some way.”
I’m practically salivating already, but I do my best to keep my tongue in my mouth.
“I know I’m not exactly a…traditionalcandidate.” She gestures towards herself like I’m supposed to notice anything besides how subtle her crow’s feet are. “But…”
“There’s no such thing, in my experience,” I reassure her. “Every person and every story are different. Tell me yours.”
She smiles subtly and eases. It’s my favorite part of the job—the reason I never could get on board with expanding our services and having an overflowing wall full of pictures of babies I’ve never met delivered by women I’ve never spoken to.
I want to help people—trulyhelpthem—and I can’t do that when my clients are cogs and widgets on a lightning-fast production line.
“I suppose it all started when I lost my husband,” she begins. To my surprise, tears glisten in her eyes, and her veneer cracks ever so slightly. “Eighteen years ago now, but some days, it feels like yesterday.”
I sit with my breath trapped in my chest as she tells me about their love story—meeting at twenty, building an empire together, planning for a family that never happened. It’s gut-wrenching.
“He always said we had time,” she says with a sad smile. “Work first, babies later. Then one morning, he just… didn’t wake up. Aneurysm. No warning.” Her fingers trace the edge of her water glass, an idle gesture so human against her otherwise perfect composure. “I threw myself into the business after that. Built it bigger than he ever dreamed. But success is a cold bedmate, Dr. Aster.”
I can only nod. I know how empty my apartment is some mornings. How deep that lonely silence goes.
“Now, I’m on the wrong side of fifty,” she continues, “and I realize that, while I was busy proving I could succeed without him, I forgot to live the life we’d planned.” She dabs at the corners of her eyes and draws in a shuddering breath. “There’s so much love in me with nowhere to go. All these years later, I still have his toothbrush in the bathroom. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
“It’s not pathetic,” I whisper, my own eyes burning. “It’s lovely, really.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I’m honestly not sure where to go from here. My prepared presentation feels so hollow and sterile after her story. If I had it my way, I’d take her hands in mine and promise to do everything I can to help her achieve her dreams.
But professional boundaries exist for a reason—no matter how often Stefan and I have crossed them, that doesn’t mean the reason is bad. So I reach for my folder.
But Gen stops me with a soft touch on my wrist.
“I’ve studied your website and everything you’ve written,” Gen admits shyly. “I know all about your procedures. It’s why I’m here. Everyone else I’ve spoken to practically laughed me out the door. Dr. Rebecca Walsh wouldn’t even sit down with me for a meeting.”
Indignation swells on her behalf. “That’s why I’m different,” I promise. “I see my clients as people above all—not as statistics and definitely not as dollar signs. I want to help.”
Gen’s eyes swim with tears again, and I have to wipe away one of my own. Something about this woman touches me. I look into her eyes and feel like Iknowher.
She blinks her crying away with a laugh. “I’m a dreamer, but that doesn’t mean I’m not practical. I know I’m in early menopause. I know this could be the end of the family road for me. Even if this doesn’t work out for me personally,” she says, sliding an embossed business card across the table, “I believe in what you’re building. I want to invest, Dr. Aster.”
