Chapter 5

Stella

I had scheduled a 9 AM initial consultation at the clinic and arrived ten minutes early.

The nurse led me into the blood draw room. Only when the needle pierced my skin did I realize how tense I was. I watched the dark red blood flow drop by drop into the glass vial, telling myself over and over that this was just routine testing—just gathering reliable data for a decision I hadn't made yet. The nurse withdrew the needle, pressed a cotton ball to the spot, and told me the results would be emailed in three hours. She asked if I wanted to wait.

I said no. I couldn't let an unknown answer eat into my already precarious work schedule.

Before I even left the clinic, my phone rang. Olivia—my assistant, her voice tight with the kind of tension that signals disaster.

"Stella, I know you took the morning off, but we have a crisis. Something's happened at Bridge Street Plaza."

"Stay calm and walk me through it," I said. "What exactly happened?"

She explained that new ownership had unilaterally voided our retail space contract citing equity changes, construction had been halted, the foreman was barred by security, and the seventy-percent-complete site was now sealed off. I took a deep breath. "Have you reached the lawyers?"

"They're en route, but there's more—Marchetti sent a legal notice this morning. They're threatening to sue us for breach of contract."

"Marchetti explicitly agreed verbally before signing to waive delay penalties," I said, enunciating each word clearly. "Four people witnessed that meeting. I have all the documentation. Emergency meeting at 10:15—everyone present."

"Understood."

I called a car and headed straight to the office. For the next twenty minutes I had no mental space for anything else, but I remained steady throughout, my voice controlled.

At 12:03, my email chimed.

I glanced at the screen. The clinic. I paused the meeting, signaled Olivia to send everyone to lunch, then returned to my chair and opened the message.

Blood hCG concentration—Positive. Recommend prompt ultrasound confirmation and follow-up clinical consultation.

I stared at that line for a long time.

I was pregnant.

I grew up Catholic. I remember when my mother took me for my first confession at five, she told me children were gifts God placed in human hands—not things people decided whether to want. I remember the stained glass Virgin Mary at St. Anthony's, how she held her child, making me believe from that age forward that all women who carried children were somehow gently watched over.

My fingers found the St. Gerard medal beneath my collarbone—the one my mother had removed from her own neck and pressed into my palm before she died. She'd said this saint protected the unborn, hoping he would watch over me and Leo. I'd never removed it in fifteen years, never seriously considered its meaning, but now it burned against my skin, making me want to tear it off.

It wasn't that I didn't want him—I desperately wanted to keep him.

But the timing was catastrophic. Under different circumstances, in another situation, even without these three crises crushing down on me, I probably would want to keep him. The realization left me breathless. I had to bow my head to the desk, forcing myself to breathe heavily just to continue functioning.

But I also knew wanting and being able to provide were entirely different things.

The Church never taught me how to keep a child when I couldn't even care for myself. I couldn't let him grow up in an environment where I teetered constantly on bankruptcy's edge, drowning in litigation. That would be wrong.

My mother never taught me this either. What she had taught me was that if I couldn't give a child the life he deserved, I should find someone who could—rather than stubbornly keeping him somewhere inadequate just to prove my conscience clear, the way I'd once insisted on taking Leo away from the Contis.

I told myself the Virgin Mary would understand choices made beyond a mother's capabilities.

But I also knew I had no alternatives.

I'd cared for Leo alone before turning eighteen, so I understood what raising an infant meant—I knew I couldn't manage another child depending on me for survival, not from birth. Maybe I'd never become the kind of woman who could shoulder life's pressures while still smiling through bedtime stories after exhausting days. At least, not the current version of me.

I closed my eyes, something sharp and dry lodged behind them. After three deep breaths, I closed the email, found the law firm number I'd saved last night, and dialed.

A woman with a gentle voice answered. I inquired about private open adoption procedures. She asked several questions—estimated due date, whether the father had been informed, confidentiality requirements—which I answered systematically. She provided available dates while I scanned my calendar line by line.

Two weeks out, on Thursday, Lumière had a site visit scheduled near Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. I'd already blocked the entire afternoon. The drive from there to her office location would take just over an hour round trip.

"Thursday afternoon at two o'clock," I said. "Thank you."

"Your appointment is confirmed, Ms. Conti. Please bring identification to the consultation, and consider in advance whether you'd like the child's other guardian present."

"This was unplanned. I honestly can't remember who the father is." I lied.

She paused, then said gently, "May God bless you."