Chapter 4: Lily

The townhouse felt different when we returned the next day, smaller somehow, as if the walls had inched closer together during our absence. James hovered at my elbow as I climbed the front steps, his hand never leaving the small of my back.

"Easy does it," he murmured, as though I might shatter if I moved too quickly.

"I'm pregnant, not made of glass," I said, attempting humor but hearing the edge in my voice.

He didn't respond, just guided me toward the living room couch where he'd arranged pillows and blankets in a nest-like formation.

"I've got soup warming on the stove," he said, helping me sit. "And Mrs. Peterson stocked the fridge with those smoothies you like."

"Thank you." I settled into the pillows, watching him fuss around me. "Don't you have that big meeting today?"

He waved dismissively. "Rescheduled. Harrison can handle it."

"But the Westlake project…"

"Is not as important as you and the baby," he finished firmly. "Nothing is."

The conviction in his voice should have been comforting. Instead, it pricked at that nameless anxiety that had been growing inside me since his hand had connected with my cheek.

"You can't put your entire career on hold for eight more months," I said carefully.

His expression darkened momentarily before smoothing out into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Watch me."

The doorbell rang before I could respond. James tensed almost imperceptibly before moving to answer it.

"That must be Zoe," he said over his shoulder.

I straightened, fixing my face into what I hoped was a normal expression. Zoe had an uncanny ability to read my moods, a skill developed over two decades of friendship.

She breezed in moments later, arms laden with gift bags, James trailing behind her with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

"You scared the hell out of me, Lily Collins!" she announced, dropping the bags to envelop me in a careful hug. "Fainting like some Victorian heroine."

I laughed despite myself. "Sorry about that. Pregnancy requires more water than I've been drinking."

Zoe pulled back to study my face, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You look exhausted."

"Hospital beds aren't exactly the Ritz," I said with a shrug.

James cleared his throat. "I'll get that soup now. Zoe, would you like some?"

"No thanks, I can't stay long. Just wanted to drop these off." She gestured to the bags. "Pregnancy essentials from someone who's been there twice."

When James disappeared into the kitchen, Zoe lowered her voice. "Are you okay?"

The concern in her eyes made my throat tighten. "I'm fine. Really."

"You'd tell me if you weren't, right?" She held my gaze, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing right through me.

"Of course," I lied.

She didn't look convinced but didn't press further. Instead, she began unpacking the gift bags of ginger candies for nausea, compression socks for swelling, and a body pillow for sleeping.

"And this," she said, pulling out a leather-bound journal, "is for all those pregnancy thoughts you won't want to say out loud. Trust me, there are many."

I ran my fingers over the smooth cover. "It's beautiful."

"Write everything down," she advised. "The good, the bad, the ugly. It helps."

James returned with a tray, three steaming bowls arranged neatly despite Zoe's refusal. "Changed my mind," he said with a tight smile. "You need to eat with us."

The command disguised as hospitality wasn't lost on any of us. Zoe raised an eyebrow but accepted the bowl.

"How's work?" I asked her, desperate to steer toward safer territory.

"Chaotic. The firm's taking on that class action against Meridian Pharmaceuticals."

"That's the one with the fertility drug, right?" James asked, his tone deliberately casual.

Zoe nodded. Hundreds of women experienced severe complications. Some life-threatening." She glanced at me before continuing. "It's a tough case, but important."

"Thank God we used reputable methods," James said, his hand finding mine and squeezing.

I smiled weakly, remembering the desperation that had driven us from clinic to clinic, treatment to treatment. The willingness to try anything, risk anything, for the chance at parenthood.

"Actually," Zoe said, setting her bowl down, "I wanted to ask about that experimental treatment you tried last year. The one in Chicago? We've got a client who's considering something similar."

James's grip on my hand tightened painfully. "That was a dead end," he said before I could respond. "Wouldn't recommend it to anyone."

I stared at him, confused. The Chicago treatment had been our twentieth attempt, the one right before our successful round. It had been expensive and emotionally draining, but not notably worse than the others.

"It wasn't that bad," I contradicted gently. "Dr. Weber was very thorough."

Something flashed in James's eyes, a warning I couldn't decipher.

"I remember differently," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "We agreed it was a mistake."

Had we? I couldn't recall such a conversation, but the past four years blurred together in a haze of hope and disappointment.

Zoe's gaze bounced between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Well, I should probably head back to the office," she said, standing abruptly. "Call me if you need anything, Lil. Anything at all."

"I'll walk you out," James said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

When they left, I sank back against the pillows, trying to make sense of James's reaction. Why would he lie about the Chicago treatment? What was he hiding?

My hand drifted to the journal Zoe had brought. Write everything down, she had said. The good, the bad, the ugly.

I reached for my purse and retrieved a pen.

*Dear Baby,* I wrote, the words flowing more easily than I'd expected. *I don't know what's happening with your father. I don't know if I'm imagining things or if there's something wrong. But I promise you this: I will figure it out. I will keep you safe. No matter what.*

The front door closed, and I quickly tucked the journal under the blanket as James returned.

"She means well," he said, settling beside me on the couch, "but Zoe always did have a way of tiring you out."

"She brought some nice things," I said carefully.

"Mmm." He reached for the remote. "Doctor said you need rest. Let's find something mindless to watch."

As he flipped through channels, I studied his profile, the strong jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the lips that could curve into the kindest smile or flatten into a hard line of anger.

"James," I said suddenly, "be honest with me. Are you hiding something about our fertility treatments?"

He went very still, his finger poised over the remote button. For a long moment, he didn't speak.

"Why would you ask that?" he finally said, his voice unnaturally even.

"Your reaction to Zoe's question. The way you cut me off. It was strange."

He turned to face me, his expression carefully arranged into concern. "I think the hospital stay has you confused, Lily. We both agreed the Chicago clinic was a nightmare. Dr. Weber practically treated you like a lab rat."

Had he? I searched my memory, trying to recall specific incidents. There had been extra blood draws, certainly. Some medication adjustments seemed aggressive. But "lab rat" felt extreme.

"I don't remember it being that bad," I insisted.

James sighed, taking my hand in his. "This is exactly why we don't talk about it. It upsets you too much." He kissed my knuckles. "Let's focus on the present. On our miracle."

The way he redirected the conversation was so smooth, so practiced, that I almost missed it. Almost.

"Why don't you want Zoe's client to try that treatment?" I pressed.

His eyes hardened for just a split second before softening again. "Because we spent twenty thousand dollars for nothing but pain. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

We had spent close to that amount on several treatments. It wasn't an unusual figure in the world of fertility treatments.

"I thought you promised not to stress about anything," he continued before I could respond. "The doctor was very clear about what's best for the baby."

There it was again, the subtle manipulation wrapped in concern. Using our baby as a shield against my questions.

"You're right," I said, feigning surrender. "I'm just tired."

Relief washed over his features. "Why don't you take a nap? I'll be right here when you wake up."

As I closed my eyes, pretending to drift off, my mind raced with questions. What had happened in Chicago? What was James hiding? And most importantly, how could I find out without putting myself or my baby at risk?