My husband hates late. He doesn’t wait for anyone. Not even his wife. He made the rule the day we got married: Any fight over ten minutes, he walks out. No warning. No second chance. Today is our anniversary. I’m eleven weeks pregnant. Morning sickness put me three minutes behind at the gate. Three minutes. I look up and Alaric is already telling the crew to close the door. Willa is in my seat. Fourth time this month. First time, security held me two minutes. He flew Willa to the Maldives. Second time, my checkup ran over by five. He took her to the spa I booked. Third time, I couldn’t stand from the nausea. Ninety seconds late. His car pulled off without me. “You’re always late,” he says. “A seat’s a seat. Someone has to use it.” I stand in the empty terminal. Something rips inside me. My hands shake as I dial him. Busy. Again. Busy. Third try, he picks up. “Willa’s airsick. I can’t move. Call 911 yourself.” I look down. There’s a puddle of red at my feet. Bright. Wrong. I set the phone on the floor. Alaric. Your schedule never had a minute for me. So this time, I’m the one leaving you behind. … The paramedics get there fast. I can’t finish a sentence. They cut my pants off at the ankle. Soaked through. Onto the stretcher. “Family?” the nurse asks, gripping my wrist. “How far along? Any conditions?” “Eleven weeks. Husband’s on a plane.” “Baby’s father. Name. Can you reach him?” I close my eyes. “Don’t bother. He’s busy.” The phone rings. Alaric. I stare at it two seconds. Answer. “Iris. You called an ambulance?” His voice is low. In the background, Willa, soft and shaky. “Alaric, is Iris okay? Maybe we should turn around. I can handle it.” He doesn’t cover the mic. “She’s good at turning nothing into a crisis. Lie down.” Then to me, “Why an ambulance? The airport has a clinic. We’ve taken off. We’re not turning back.” My stomach cramps again. I bite down and wait it out. “The doctor said I could lose the baby.” Two seconds of silence. “Using the baby again? Really?” “Iris. You were the one who was late. If I rearrange my life every time you slip up, everyone will think my time is a joke.” Before, I would’ve cried. Begged him to believe me. Told him the pain was real. Now I just watch the nurse peel off another bloody pad. I don’t have the energy. Willa’s little voice floats through, “Ric, don’t be mad. Pregnant girls get emotional. She probably just wants you to comfort her.” His voice goes colder. “I don’t have time for your jealous games.” “Keep the receipts. I’ll cover the hospital when I’m back. Stop calling. Willa needs rest.” Click. I check the time. Exactly ten minutes. The nurse looks at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it. I flip the phone screen down. “Can you put it on silent?” … By the time the tests are done, it’s dark. The doctor slides the report across. “Threatened miscarriage. Strict bed rest. No stress. No movement.” “Will the baby make it?” “There’s still a heartbeat. That’s all I can promise. Can family come tonight?” I shake my head. Her jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be alone. If you bleed heavily, hit the call button right away.” The door opens. Alaric’s assistant walks in wheeling Alaric’s suitcase. He lifts out a folded shawl. “Miss Grant left this at the airport. Mr. Vance is worried about the flight back being cold. He says you’re close to the airport. Wash it and drop it at the dry cleaner’s.” The doctor’s face goes flat. “She almost lost the baby an hour ago. And you brought her laundry?” The assistant shifts. “Mr. Vance said Madam’s good at taking care of these things. Miss Grant needs it before nine tomorrow. For the flight home.” His phone rings. Speaker. Alaric. “Delivered?” “Yes, sir. But the doctor says she can’t get out of bed.” “Then hire a courier. Iris, don’t drag this out. Willa needs her things.” I hand the shawl back. “Take it. I’m not her laundry service.” “What now?” he says, bored. “It’s a shawl.” My hand goes to my stomach. It’s still cramping. My voice comes out low. “You’re right. If it gets lost, it doesn’t matter.” The assistant reaches for the shawl. The suitcase tips. A prenatal folder slides out onto the floor. The name on the cover is Willa Grant. Bottom line, printed clean: Eight weeks pregnant.
“Willa’s pregnant?” I flip the folder open. A baby scan is tucked inside. The assistant’s face drains. He lunges for it. “Mrs. Vance, that’s Miss Grant’s private information.” “Then why is it in my husband’s suitcase?” “Mr. Vance just went with her to the appointment.” The phone’s still on speaker. Alaric cuts in, cold. “Willa hasn’t been feeling well. I took her to get checked. She’s not married. She doesn’t want people knowing. Don’t spread it around.” I look at the date on the scan. It’s the day of my first checkup. The day he promised to come with me. We got to the hospital. He said Willa’s car broke down. Told me to go in alone. I sat in that waiting room four hours. When I came out with my results, his phone was off. Same hospital. Same day. He was walking another woman through every scan on the other side of the wall. I ask it flat. “Whose baby is it?” “None of your business.” “You’re my husband.” His patience snaps. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you to drop it.” “Iris. You already have a baby. You don’t need to come after a girl with no one in the world.” “I asked whose baby it is.” Willa gasps like she just woke up. “Iris, please don’t get the wrong idea. Ric and I aren’t like that. I didn’t want my family finding out. He was just keeping it quiet for me.” “Then where’s the father?” Silence. Then she starts crying. Alaric drops his voice, soothing. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say.” He takes the phone back. All the warmth is gone. “Are you done? She just found out she’s pregnant. She can’t handle stress.” I look at the diagnosis on my bedside table. We’re both pregnant. Willa frowns and he panics. I bleed and he sends over her laundry. “Alaric. I can’t handle stress either.” “You’re fine, aren’t you?” It slips out. Both ends of the line go quiet. I don’t say another word. For the first time, I’m the one who hangs up. He doesn’t come back until the next afternoon. He doesn’t come to me first. He takes Willa home. Puts her to bed. Seven in the evening, the door swings open. He’s holding a takeout bag. “Willa said your appetite’s been bad. She wanted me to bring you something.” I glance at the label. Seafood risotto. Willa’s favorite. I’m allergic to shrimp. “Just leave it.” He sits by the bed. His eyes flick over my face. “What did the doctor say?” “Bed rest. To keep the baby.” “Family dinner is tomorrow night. We were going to announce your pregnancy. Since you can’t make it, Willa will sit in for you.” I stare at him. “She’s going as Mrs. Vance?” He tucks the blanket around me. His voice is almost soft. “Just the seat. Focus on getting better. Don’t make it a thing.” Next second, he pulls a document out of his briefcase. “Sign this. We’re announcing Project Skyline tomorrow. You can’t be there. We’ll list Willa as lead designer for now. After the launch, we switch it back.” I grip the paper. Project Skyline is my mother’s last work. Two years of my life to finish it. “Why can’t you just announce my name?” “You’re not showing up. That spooks the investors. Willa looks the part and she’ll be on time. She’s a better fit.” “It’s my design.” “I know.” He puts the pen in my hand. His thumb presses down on the back of mine. “We’re just borrowing her name. Don’t be difficult.” I pull my hand back. “I’m not signing.” His face goes blank. “Iris. The company isn’t your playhouse.” “You already blew up the flight schedule. Willa’s willing to clean up your mess. What more do you want?” He smooths the paper flat again. “Signed by nine. My assistant will pick it up.” I watch his back. “And if I don’t?” He stops in the doorway. “Every file on Project Skyline is at Vance Group. You don’t sign, I still get to decide who announces it.” He knows exactly what this project cost me. My hand closes into a fist. And I finally say it. “I want a divorce.” His step falters. He turns. His eyes are mocking. “Iris. Jealousy has a limit. Don’t take this somewhere you can’t come back from.” He says it like he’s said it a hundred times before. Like he knows I can’t leave him. But this time. I’m just tired.
The door opens. A nurse walks in with a lab report. “Family of Iris Sinclair? Her numbers are dropping again. She needs someone with her for the next twenty-four hours.” Alaric checks his watch. “I told Willa I’d have dinner with her at eight. I can’t be late.” I look at him. One last time. My voice shakes. “So she matters more than me.” “It’s not what you think.” The last of his patience is gone. His voice drops flat. “Willa’s on time. She has manners. She knows how to think about other people. If her father hadn’t died saving me, she wouldn’t be alone in this world.” “When are you going to learn to be like her?” He steps past the nurse and walks out. I’ve heard this speech before. Willa’s father was Alaric’s pilot. Ten years ago, engine failure. He shielded Alaric and didn’t make it out. Alaric has been paying that debt ever since. She wants the passenger seat, I get out. She wants the ticket, he leaves me at the airport. She wants my place, and he calls it making things right. I used to understand. But understanding doesn’t mean I have to be the doormat. Half an hour later, the nurse comes in to move me. They wheel me out of the private room and into a six-bed ward. On the TV mounted to the wall, Vance Group’s press launch is streaming live. Willa is wearing my dress. Standing in front of the model of the cabin I designed. The host smiles. “Miss Grant, I hear this is a gift for your baby on the way?” Willa touches her stomach. Shy little smile. “Something like that. Ric helped me revise it so many times. He said our baby deserves the safest sky in the world.” The room goes loud. Someone shouts a congratulations. Someone else asks if there’s a wedding coming. Alaric doesn’t correct anyone. He just adjusts her mic and says, easy, “The fact that she’s up here says everything.” Applause. The women in the beds around me look over. “Isn’t that your husband?” “No, that’s his wife, isn’t it? She’s pregnant.” I reach for the remote. My hand is shaking too hard to hit the button. The woman next to me switches it off. “Honey. Don’t watch.” My phone buzzes. Alaric. [Launch went great. If you’d cooperated, none of this would look so ugly.] An electronic authorization form is attached. My name is already on it. I call him. “Who signed for me? That’s forgery.” “The launch can’t stop for you. Willa signed on your behalf. When you calm down, legal will clean it up.” My stomach knots. “Stop the launch. Put out a correction.” “Do you have any idea how much Vance Group loses if we pull it now?” “It was my mother’s work.” “That’s why I turned it into something worth more.” He pauses. His tone softens on cue. “Stop this. I’ll come see you tonight. Text my assistant what you want to eat.” Something inside me curls up small. He always does this. A crumb of kindness. And I’m supposed to forget everything. Then Willa’s voice comes through, sharp and thrilled. “Ric! I think I just felt the baby move!” Alaric snaps to attention. “You’re only eight weeks. It’s too early to feel anything. Are you in pain? I’ll take you to the hospital right now.” He doesn’t even hang up. I hear his footsteps hurrying away. Car door. Willa laughing softly. Him telling her to breathe. The line finally cuts. The nurse rushes in with a chart. “Iris? The contractions are getting worse. We need family consent, now.” I look at the black screen of my phone. I set it face down on the blanket. The bleeding won’t stop. The pain is climbing. I already know what she’s going to say next. The doctor comes in behind her, quiet. “Iris. The bleeding isn’t slowing. If we wait, we’re going to lose you too.” “You need to make a decision. Now.” Every choice already made. Every door already closed. Every minute he wouldn’t wait. There isn’t a heartbeat left to save. I look at the doctor. My voice is steady. “End the pregnancy. Save me.” She hesitates. “You’re sure? Once we start.” “I’m sure.” “He doesn’t get to be a father. Not to my child.”
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