Chapter 4
When we came out of the restaurant, all the lights in the shopping center were on.
We walked side by side toward the parking garage.
Passing a cozy little baby boutique, Damian suddenly stopped.
His eyes were fixed on a pair of fuzzy baby shoes in the window, no bigger than the palm of my hand.
He stared at them for a long time. Then he turned to me.
“Ivy, do you think the baby’s a boy or a girl?”
There was something in his eyes I’d never seen before. Something almost feverish.
I looked at him coldly and didn’t answer.
Damian was completely lost in his own feelings. He walked straight into the store.
Like a kid in a candy store who couldn’t decide, he picked up one tiny onesie after another, holding them up, turning them over in his hands.
A blond salesclerk came over and asked if she could help.
He smiled and said he was picking out some clothes for the baby on the way.
I stood outside the store and watched him through the glass, so gentle and attentive, and my stomach turned over.
Just two days ago, he’d coldly told me to get rid of this baby. He’d said we could always have another one.
He’d given up on this life with his own mouth. And now here he was, playing the doting father.
I went inside and looked at the tiny clothes in the window, and my hand drifted to my stomach.
Half an hour later, Damian came out loaded with bags. I didn’t stop him.
He couldn’t stop smiling. “I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, so I got pink and blue. Look at this one—isn’t it adorable?”
I glanced at the brand-new clothes and looked away. “Let’s go. Let’s go home.”
In the car, I leaned against the window and watched the city lights rushing by, saying nothing.
At a red light, Damian glanced over at me a few times, and his voice softened. “Still mad about yesterday?”
He reached over to touch me, sounding a little helpless. “She asked me in front of everyone. I couldn’t exactly embarrass her right there, could I? What was I supposed to do?”
When I still didn’t answer, he sighed, as if he were handing me a consolation prize. “Look, I’ve got an even bigger project. Tomorrow I’ll have my lawyers send the contract straight to your office, with your name on it. Will that make it right?”
He thought I was only angry that he’d given the deal to someone else.
He thought his money could heal the wound he'd inflicted.
I turned and looked at him calmly, and shook my head. “I don’t need it.”
Damian frowned. His hands tightened on the wheel. “You’re still doing this? I told you, the situation at the time—”
“I said I don’t need it,” I cut in. “I quit.”
Screech—
He slammed on the brakes, and the car jerked to a stop in the middle of the road.
He turned and stared at me in disbelief. “What did you say? You quit? Why didn’t you talk to me first?”
I looked straight ahead and didn’t answer.
Damian gripped the wheel so hard the veins stood out on the backs of his hands.
He knew how much that job meant to me.
How many all-nighters I’d pulled to get promoted. How, to land one impossible client, I’d even spent a month working as his unpaid driver.
The rest of the drive was dead silent.
By the time we got home and stepped into the elevator, Damian seemed to have swallowed his anger.
He sighed and reached to pull me into his arms, his tone full of an easy, unquestioned control.
“Fine. If you quit, you quit. You’re pregnant—you shouldn’t be wearing yourself out like that anyway. Once the baby’s born, you can stay home and rest, or do whatever you feel like.”
“You don’t have to worry about money. I can take care of this family.”
The way he said it, it was as if he’d already decided for me: I’d settle down and be his stay-at-home wife.
I stepped away from his arm and pushed open the apartment door.
Damian dropped the designer shopping bags on the sofa and pulled out a onesie, looking pleased with himself, like a man with everything under control. “These brands use decent fabric. But anything that touches a baby’s skin should be sterilized first.”
He leaned back on the sofa, scrolling on his phone, already making plans. “I’ve reached out to a designer who specializes in nurseries.”
“Ivy, what color should we paint the nursery? I was thinking the empty guest room next door would be perfect…”
He looked up at me, full of expectation, waiting for some warm, motherly agreement.
I walked over and stood in front of him, looking down at this man so moved by his own performance, as if I were a stranger. “Stop looking.”
His thumb stopped on the screen. He looked up, a little lost. “What?”
I looked him straight in the eye and said, one word at a time:
“The baby’s gone.”
