Chapter 3

The total was twenty-seven thousand dollars.

“Dante, you froze the account I use. You know I don’t have that.”

Dante rubbed his forehead.

“I’ve given you so much, Elena. Why is meeting me halfway such an insult?”

My phone rang before I could answer. It was Mom.

I put her on speaker because my hands hurt too much to keep holding it.

“Sweetheart, I spoke to the specialist’s office, like you asked. The private care plan comes to eight thousand. I can send five. Can Dante cover the other three?”

She meant the monitoring and follow-up care my doctor wanted arranged, the support Dante had canceled with a phone call.

His head came up.

“Has something changed with the baby?”

For one second, I thought he would finally listen.

Then Vivienne laughed.

“Oh, Dante. First the fertility bills, now her mother calling with a crisis. This is exactly what we discussed.”

Mom went quiet.

“Mrs. Ward,” Vivienne said brightly, “we’re trying to help Elena become less dependent. Calling in reinforcements doesn’t help.”

“This is for their baby.”

“Then Elena should want to contribute.”

Dante held out his hand for the phone.

“I’ll call the doctor,” I said. “She can explain why she recommended the care plan.”

Vivienne put her notebook on his desk.

“The hospital discharged her, Dante. Now she’s asking for an eight-thousand-dollar private package. You need to separate a medical emergency from a request for preferential treatment.”

“The doctor recommended it,” I said.

“And you’ve brought your mother in to make refusing it sound cruel.”

Dante looked at the estimate.

“If there’s an emergency, I’ll handle it. But we agreed to split these expenses, Elena. Having your mother ask doesn’t change that.”

Three thousand dollars. Less than he had spent on one bottle of wine the week before.

Mom’s voice became painfully careful.

“Elena, don’t argue. I’ll see what else I can move around. Your father’s old truck might be worth something.”

“No, Mom. Keep the truck. I’ll find the rest.”

I ended the call before she heard me cry.

“When your uncle shut you out, she emptied her savings for us,” I told Dante. “She sent groceries because she knew I was skipping meals. Don’t speak to her like that again.”

His face softened. He came around the desk and wiped a tear from my cheek.

“I know what she did for us. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then let her keep her truck.”

“She will.” His thumb moved gently over my skin. “Elena, I love you. I’m trying to make sure we never go back to fighting about money.”

Vivienne opened her notebook.

“Her mother calls, she cries, and now you’re about to reverse the agreement. That’s the pattern we’re trying to change.”

I picked up the medical papers.

Dante frowned.

“Where are you going?”

“To arrange the appointments.”

“We haven’t finished talking.”

“You have the estimate and the doctor’s number. Let me know what you decide.”

Vivienne made another mark.

“Walking away when she can’t control the outcome.”

Dante looked at the page, then at me.

“This won’t improve our score, Elena.”

I put the papers in my bag and left.

By noon I had called the hospital’s billing office about assistance, requested the specialist’s payment-plan forms, and asked my mother not to sell anything yet.

None of it put three thousand dollars in my hands that afternoon.

I canceled Friday’s flight and put the seven hundred dollars toward my care. I would rebook as soon as the doctor cleared me.

Then I called Mom.

“Can you find a specialist near you? I’ll need somewhere to continue the appointments.”

“Of course. Your room’s ready whenever you can come.”

After we hung up, I opened my closet.

Dante had given me bags, necklaces, earrings. Before Vivienne returned, every occasion came with a velvet box.

I packed them all.

My abdomen ached as I carried the bag downstairs. I stopped on the landing until the pain eased, then called a cab to an upscale consignment boutique.

I told myself there was no shame in selling a gift to help our baby.

The woman behind the counter examined the first necklace, then the second.

She gave me a pitying smile.

“Honey. These are fake.”