Chương 13
Daniel pulled away from the curb before Ethan had closed his own car door.
For the first two blocks, neither of us spoke.
I watched traffic lights change through the windshield and tried to breathe normally.
My contractions were still coming, but not with the ruthless precision I had expected labor to have.
They arrived like arguments.
Too close together, then nothing.
Sharp enough to frighten me, then gone before I could decide what they meant.
Daniel kept both hands on the wheel.
“You can tell me to shut up.”
“I probably will.”
“Good.”
He glanced at me once.
“How far apart now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were timing them.”
“No, Vanessa was timing them.”
“That sentence belongs in a very strange novel.”
I laughed despite myself.
It hurt.
Then another contraction came.
I grabbed the door handle and closed my eyes.
Daniel stopped talking.
The light ahead turned green.
He did not move until the car behind us honked.
“Sorry,” he muttered, and drove.
By the time we reached the hospital entrance, Ethan’s car was behind us.
A nurse took one look at me in the lobby and put me in a wheelchair before I could object.
“I can walk.”
“Congratulations.”
She pushed me toward the elevators.
Daniel followed with my purse.
Ethan came through the sliding doors thirty seconds later.
“Emily.”
The nurse looked over her shoulder.
“Family?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Ethan stopped a few feet away.
“Yes,” he said.
I looked at him.
The word hurt because it was still true.
The nurse nodded.
“You can come up.”
Daniel handed me my purse.
“I’ll stay downstairs.”
Ethan’s eyes flicked toward him.
For once, neither man said anything.
I reached for Daniel’s wrist.
“Don’t call anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Especially Halpern.”
His mouth twitched.
“Noted.”
“And find me a lawyer.”
“That I can do.”
I let go.
The nurse wheeled me into the elevator.
Ethan stepped inside before the doors closed.
He stood in the corner like a visitor.
Labor and delivery smelled faintly of disinfectant and warm plastic.
Within fifteen minutes, I was in a hospital gown with two monitors strapped around my abdomen.
Our daughter’s heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
I started crying.
I had not cried when I found Vanessa on Ethan’s lap.
Not really.
Not after the parking garage.
Not while discovering the missing drive.
But that rapid little sound cracked straight through me.
Ethan stood beside the window.
He looked down.
His shoulders shook once.
I turned away.
Dr. Patel came in carrying a tablet.
She checked the monitor, asked questions, pressed gently against my abdomen, and told me my cervix had changed enough that they were keeping me.
“For how long?”
“At least overnight.”
“Am I in labor?”
“Possibly early labor.”
“Possibly?”
She gave me the look doctors give people who want certainty from biology.
“Your contractions are real.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“They’re not necessarily ominous.”
“What about the labs?”
“We’re repeating them.”
Ethan stepped closer.
“What are you worried about?”
Dr. Patel looked at me before answering him.
I nodded.
“Preeclampsia is one concern.”
My mouth went dry.
“Serious?”
“It can be.”
She kept her voice calm.
“Right now, your blood pressure is elevated but not severe-range, the baby looks reassuring, and we’re watching everything closely.”
“What happens if it gets worse?”
“We make decisions based on you and the baby.”
That answer frightened me because it was honest.
Ethan sat in the chair beside the bed.
“I’m staying.”
Dr. Patel left.
I stared at the fetal monitor.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
A message from Daniel.
Lawyer found.
Her name is Rachel Kim.
Former federal prosecutor, now white-collar and corporate disputes.
She can speak when you’re ready.
I typed back one-handed.
Tomorrow.
Then another message appeared.
Priya.
Board has locked Ethan out of company systems.
I looked at him.
He was watching our daughter’s heartbeat.
His phone had not stopped buzzing since we arrived.
He had ignored every call.
I said, “They locked you out.”
He looked at me.
“So Priya is reporting to you now?”
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“Don’t.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology no longer sounded like strategy.
It sounded exhausted.
I hated that it still affected me.
“What were the payments for?”
He looked at the floor.
“You already know.”
“I know where they went.”
“That’s the answer.”
“No.”
I shifted carefully against the pillows.
“I want to know what you told yourself they were for.”
He closed his eyes.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
“At first, it was supposed to compensate for introductions.”
“My introductions.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“We needed flexibility.”
“That sounds like something people say before a subpoena.”
His mouth tightened.
“I moved money into the entity because it was easier than taking direct compensation.”
“Easier for taxes?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Investor optics.”
I stared at him.
“You were hiding compensation.”
“Not hiding.”
“Structuring.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a prettier word.”
He did not argue.
Another contraction came.
I breathed through it.
Ethan stood automatically.
I shook my head.
He sat again.
When it passed, I asked, “Did the board know?”
“No.”
“Did the CFO?”
“Not the full structure.”
“Priya?”
“No.”
“Vanessa?”
“Pieces.”
“And you thought this was sustainable.”
“I thought we’d clean it up before it mattered.”
I looked at him.
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
He gave a tired, broken laugh.
“I’ve said worse in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Yes.”
Silence settled between us.
Outside our room, a newborn cried somewhere down the hall.
Ethan stared toward the sound.
“I was angry at you.”
“For what?”
“For leaving.”
I turned my head slowly.
“Leaving what?”
“The work.”
“I miscarried.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
He looked at me.
“I know what happened.”
“No.”
May you like
His voice cracked.
“I know what I did with it.”
