Adrian replied, “You need to stop talking.”
Grant lowered his voice.
“I need tomorrow to look like a medical disaster. Nothing more.”
There are moments when the mind refuses to understand words because understanding them would require accepting something unbearable.
That was one of those moments.
I lay perfectly still.
Grant continued.
“Women have complications during delivery every day. Nobody is going to question it if something goes wrong.”
Dr. Ross said something I couldn’t hear.
Grant answered:
“You don’t need to do anything dramatic. You just need to make sure she doesn’t come home.”
My hand instinctively moved toward my stomach.
My daughter kicked beneath my palm.
Grant was talking about me.
His wife.
The mother of the child he had spent nine months pretending to adore.
Then Adrian asked the question that shattered whatever tiny piece of denial I had left.
“What about the baby?”
There was a pause.
Grant sighed.
“The baby will probably be fine.”
Probably.
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