Chapter 5

Stella

I had scheduled my first appointment at the clinic for nine in the morning, and I arrived ten minutes early.

The nurse led me into the blood draw room, and it wasn't until the needle pierced my skin that I realized how tense I was. I watched that tube of deep red blood slowly fill the glass vial, telling myself over and over that this was just a routine checkup, just to prepare a reliable basis for a decision I hadn't yet made. Then the nurse withdrew the needle, pressed a cotton ball against the puncture, and told me the results would be emailed to me in three hours, asking if I wanted to wait here.

I said no. Because I didn't want this unknown answer to eat into my already precarious work time.

Before I could even leave the clinic, my phone rang—it was Olivia, my assistant, her voice tight with the unmistakable sound of something gone very wrong.

"Stella, I know you took the morning off, but the situation is bad. Something's happened at Bridge Street Plaza."

"Don't panic, take it slow," I said. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"The building had an equity transfer last night. The new owners sent out a notice this morning at eight, voiding the counter lease we signed with Lumière on the grounds of 'inconsistent equity transfer terms.' They've shut down the on-site construction. The foreman just called me—security stopped him at the entrance, and he couldn't even retrieve the tools and materials."

"How far along is the counter renovation?"

"Seventy percent of the main structure is complete. The lighting fixtures have arrived, and the flooring was just installed yesterday."

I took a deep breath. "Have we contacted the lawyers?"

"They're already on their way, but there's something else, Stella—" She paused for a second. "Marchetti sent a formal email. Their lawyers are threatening to sue us for breach of contract."

"—What?"

"Our inventory for this season has been held at Red Hook Terminal. While that technically qualifies as force majeure under the contract, they're now holding us to the contract terms and demanding forty-five percent of the contract amount in damages."

"Marchetti explicitly gave verbal agreement to waive late delivery penalties before signing the contract," I said, enunciating each word carefully. "There were four people in that meeting."

"I know, but they're now pretending that verbal agreement never happened. Their legal notice came this morning. They've given us one week, after which they'll file the lawsuit."

I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

"I'll be at the office by ten-fifteen. Have everyone from legal in the conference room by then, and gather everyone who was in that Marchetti meeting. Pull up the meeting minutes, email exchanges, everything that can prove that verbal waiver existed—don't miss a single item. We'll start the meeting as soon as I arrive."

"Got it."

As I hung up, I pressed the elevator call button and opened Uber, but before a driver could accept, the elevator dinged open, revealing a man inside. A man I knew.

Joey Caruso. The youngest son of the Caruso family, Vincent's brother. He was three years younger than me, and since he was sixteen, he'd been following me around in a way he thought was subtle but everyone knew about. Three months ago, in front of half of Lumière's executive team outside my office building, he'd confessed his feelings, saying he could give me everything I wanted. That day, I'd made things as clear as I could without being cruel. He'd said he understood, that his door would always be open, that he wouldn't push me, and I should reach out whenever I thought of him. We hadn't been alone together since, but at every family gathering we attended, the look in his eyes had never truly gone away.

"Stella?"

Joey Caruso wore a well-tailored navy suit, holding a steaming cup of coffee. When he saw me, his eyebrows lifted slightly—that particular way of raising his brows he'd had since childhood, as if everything he saw made the world a little more interesting than he'd expected.

"Morning," I said, stepping inside.

"What are you doing at the hospital? Are you sick? You don't look well." He gave me a once-over. "Didn't sleep well last night?"

"Didn't sleep at all."

"Oh," he said, extending the coffee cup toward me. "Want this? This place adds an extra shot to their espresso—the kind that could wake the dead and get them speed-walking out of their coffins."

I smiled briefly and shook my head. "Coffee won't help me right now."

"Then things must be really bad." He watched the floor numbers descending, then glanced at me again. "What did you come to the hospital for? Cold? Fever? Or something else?"

"Nothing, just a routine checkup."

"Oh—are you in a hurry?"

"Desperately."

"Where to?"

"Midtown office."

"Why don't you take my car," he said smoothly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I don't have anything this morning and I'm heading that way anyway. After you're done, we could grab lunch together."

"Don't you live downtown?"

"I must have a friend or two who live in Midtown," he said, eyes on the elevator indicator. "Don't overthink it—I'm not here to bother you. I remember everything I said last time. When have I ever crossed the line?"

I glanced at my phone screen, where the app was still spinning, waiting for a driver to accept.

"So what do you say, Stella," he said, his tone lightening slightly. "I'm not going to bite you. And even if I dared to think it, my brother would beat me up first. I know you don't have feelings for me right now, but today really is just because I'm heading that way."

I cancelled the order and tucked my phone back into my bag. "Thanks, then."

"Don't mention it," he said. The elevator doors opened, and he gestured for me to go first. "Let's see if we can get you to your Midtown office in twenty minutes."

For the next twenty-something minutes, I didn't have the mental space for anything else. The meeting started the moment I walked through the door. The lawyer was at the whiteboard mapping out a timeline, the legal director had arranged all Marchetti-related emails in reverse chronological order, and the foreman from Bridge Street Plaza had been patched into the video conference to report details of the construction site lockdown. I listened while mentally taking apart and reassembling both situations—who could be pressured, where we couldn't yield, which path would save the most time, which would save the most money. I hadn't had a morning like this, with two major crises simultaneously on my desk, in years, but my hands didn't shake and my voice remained steady.

At 12:03, my email chimed.

I glanced at the screen. From the clinic.

I paused the meeting, signaling to Olivia to let everyone break for lunch, then sat back down in my chair and opened the email.

Blood hCG concentration—positive. Recommend immediate ultrasound confirmation and subsequent clinical consultation.

I stared at that line for a long time.

I was pregnant, and I didn't want to keep this child.

I knew this wasn't right. I'd grown up in a Catholic household. I remembered when my mother took me for my first confession at five years old, she told me that children were things God placed in human hands, not things people decided whether or not to have. I remembered the stained glass window in St. Anthony's Church with the Virgin Mary holding her child—from that year on, I'd believed that any woman who carried a child would be gently watched over by something. I knew that what I was about to do would make the figure in that stained glass window look at me with judgment, would make my mother—if she were still here—never forgive me, would make God—if he was real—strike my name from his book.

I knew.

I also knew I had no other choice.

I didn't have the strength. I was already out of strength. Everything I had to face each day when I woke up had already filled every available inch of space. The messes in my life came one after another like a fishing net no one wanted to collect. I'd also promised my mother I would take care of Leo—a promise made before Leo was even born, words I'd never forgotten.

I had no way to care for something smaller than a pea, something that depended on me to live, on top of all this. I might never become the kind of woman who could carry a thousand pounds on her back while still smiling and telling bedtime stories to a child—at least, I couldn't do it now.

I closed my eyes. Something sour and dry seemed lodged in them. I took three deep breaths, closed the email, picked up my phone, found the clinic number I'd saved last night, and dialed.

A woman with a gentle voice answered. I asked her to schedule me for a procedure. She asked several questions—gestational age, allergy history, whether a family member would accompany me—and I answered them all. She listed a series of available dates. I opened my calendar and scanned down line by line.

Two weeks from now, on Thursday, Lumière had a scheduled site visit for a project near Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. I'd already blocked out the entire afternoon on my calendar. From there to the clinic address she'd given, the drive would be just over an hour round trip. I could disappear for an entire afternoon under the guise of work, and no one would question it.

"Let's schedule it for Thursday afternoon at two," I said. "Thank you."

"I've scheduled your appointment, Ms. Conti. On the day of the procedure, please don't wear makeup and maintain a four-to-six-hour fast. We recommend having someone accompany you for transportation."

"I'll drive myself."

She paused on the other end, then said gently, "I wish you all the best."