Chapter Eight

OLIVIA'S POV

Four days left.

I'd been counting without meaning to. Every morning I woke up and subtracted one, like a countdown I hadn't agreed to but couldn't stop running.

Damien had been different since the Emma conversation. Quieter. More present in small ways that were harder to ignore than grand gestures would have been. He made coffee in the morning and left a cup on the counter without saying anything. He came home for dinner instead of eating at the office. He asked Ethan about school and actually listened to the answers.

I noticed all of it and told myself it didn't matter.

Marcus called Tuesday afternoon. "The Portland clinic pushed the interview to Friday. Same time."

"Fine."

"Olivia. You sound different."

"I'm tired."

"Is he doing something? Pressuring you?"

"No. That's almost the problem." I moved to the bedroom and closed the door. "He's being decent. It would be easier if he wasn't."

"Decent isn't enough. Not after everything."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because decent is the minimum. It's not a reason to stay."

"I'm not staying. I'm just thinking."

"Stop thinking and start packing." His voice was firm but not unkind. "You have a job interview Friday and an apartment waiting. That's real. What he's offering is a week of good behavior."

He was right. I knew he was right.

I just couldn't make myself open the suitcase.

Wednesday morning I had my first prenatal appointment.

I'd scheduled it weeks ago at a clinic across town, paid out of pocket, given a false last name. I took a cab and sat in the waiting room surrounded by women with partners beside them and tried not to feel the absence.

The doctor was efficient and kind. Heartbeat strong. Growth on track. She printed an ultrasound image and handed it to me without ceremony.

I sat in the cab on the way home staring at it.

A small curved shape. Spine visible. One arm raised slightly, like a wave.

I'd been thinking of the pregnancy in practical terms for three months. Logistics, finances, timelines. Seeing the image made it suddenly, completely real. This was a person. Mine. Already waving at me from somewhere I couldn't reach yet.

I tucked the image into my coat pocket before I got out of the cab.

Damien was in the foyer when I walked in, jacket on, keys in hand. He stopped when he saw me.

"Where did you go?"

"Appointment."

His eyes dropped briefly to my coat, then back to my face. "Prenatal?"

"Yes."

A pause. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Everything's fine." I moved past him toward the stairs.

"Olivia."

I stopped.

"I would have come with you."

I turned slowly. "I didn't ask you to."

"I know. I'm just saying." He set his keys down. "For the next one. If you'd want that. I'd like to be there."

The image in my pocket felt like it weighed something. "There might not be a next one. If I'm in Portland—"

"I know." He didn't argue it. Just stood there with it. "I'm not trying to pressure you. I just want you to know I want to be present. Whatever you decide."

I went upstairs.

I took out the ultrasound image that night and looked at it for a long time. Then I did something I hadn't planned to do. I went and knocked on Damien's study door.

He was at his desk. He looked up and waited.

I crossed the room and put the image down in front of him.

He went very still.

I watched him look at it. Really look at it. His expression didn't perform anything. It just changed, quietly, in the way faces do when something lands before the brain can manage it. His jaw tightened slightly. His hand moved toward the image and stopped.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

He picked it up carefully.

The silence stretched for almost a full minute. I stood there and let it.

"You went alone," he finally said. Not an accusation. Something else.

"I've been going alone since the beginning."

He looked up from the image. "I know." He set it down gently, facing him. "I'm sorry for that."

"An apology doesn't retroactively change three months of hiding this from your housekeeper because I was scared of how you'd react."

"No. It doesn't." He leaned back. "I'm not trying to rewrite what happened. I just—" He stopped. Started again. "I keep thinking about what you said. About growing up in foster care. About knowing what it looks like when a child is tolerated."

"Don't."

"I need to say it."

"Damien—"

"I would not tolerate this child." His voice was quiet and direct. "I want to be clear about that. Whatever I said that night, whatever grief I was drowning in, that does not extend to this baby. This is my child and I will not treat them like a consequence."

The words landed somewhere I hadn't protected well enough.

I picked up the ultrasound image from his desk. "Two days left," I said.

"I know."

"Whatever you're going to say, say it before Friday."

"I will."

I went to the door.

"Olivia." His voice stopped me. "What did it feel like? Seeing it for the first time?"

I thought about the small curved shape. The raised arm.

"Like something I couldn't take back," I said. "In the best way."

I left him with that.

Back in my room I put the ultrasound image on the nightstand where I could see it. Outside, the city moved through its ordinary night. Cabs and sirens and the low hum of everything continuing regardless.

My phone showed one unread message from Marcus: "Confirmed Friday. Portland's ready when you are.”

I read it three times and didn't reply.