CHAPTER TWO

#Dorothy’s POV#

The car is silent except for the soft noise of the highway and Joel’s voice flirting through the phone like I’m not sitting right next to him.

His hand’s on the steering wheel, but his mouth is somewhere else entirely.

“Yeah baby, I’ll be back in two days max. I had to fly out for a quick thing. Money stuff, you know,” he says smoothly, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, yeah… of course I miss you. Why wouldn’t I? You're my favorite.”

He chuckles.

My stomach tightens.

He’s been on the phone since we landed in New Jersey. I haven’t said a word. Just sitting here, lips pressed together, fingers picking at the hem of my dress.

The leather seat sticks to the back of my thighs. I shift slightly.

Joel glances at me once in the rearview mirror, then goes back to his call. “I’ll send you a picture when I land, okay? Maybe more than one…”

I blink at him.

Dead inside.

He finally ends the call and tosses the phone onto the dashboard like it’s made of trash. Like the girl he was just talking to doesn’t matter. And maybe she doesn’t. Not in the long term. But in the short term? She matters more than me.

He doesn’t still say a word to me.

The leather seat squeaks faintly under me as I shift again. 

I'm so uncomfortable.

I’ve been quiet the whole drive. Letting him talk to his babes. Letting him laugh like he doesn’t have a dying wife beside him.

And the whole time, my mind is digging through memories like drawers I never wanted to reopen.

Three miscarriages.

One every six months like clockwork. None of them far enough along to cry over publicly, but deep enough to scar. The first time, I bled through my pants and sat on the bathroom floor until I passed out. Joel wasn’t home. Wasn’t even in the country.

The second time, I didn’t even know I was pregnant until it was over. The doctor said stress, poor nutrition, maybe even dehydration.

The third… I tried to pretend it wasn’t real at all.

But now, with the cancer diagnosis—

I look out the window, jaw clenched. Maybe it was my body all along. My womb. Maybe I was born broken.

Maybe I’m cursed.

Maybe it’s just punishment.

Maybe—

“Get down,” Joel mutters.

We’re already pulling into the private hospital parking lot. He speeds through the gates like he’s trying to outrun something, but I know he can’t.

He can’t outrun this.

The hospital is a cloud of antiseptic and cold walls. White floors. Gossiping nurses.

I’m used to this place. Joel is not.

He signs in with his usual arrogance, snaps at the receptionist for making us wait two extra minutes, and tosses his sunglasses on the counter like he owns the building.

He doesn’t. But his father probably did.

The specialist arrives. A tall, sharp and able-bodied man with even sharper words. He runs the full test suite on both of us, because if we’re talking fertility preservation before chemo, we need to know everything.

Blood. Ultrasound. Swabs. Tissue.

Joel’s annoyed. Keeps tapping his foot and mumbling something about wasting time. His pride is louder than the machines.

Then finally, hours later, the doctor walks in with a clipboard and a tone that means news is coming.

“We ran the tests. Your wife's hormone levels are a little unstable, but her reproductive system is intact. No major anomalies.”

Joel exhales. Almost pridefully.

The doctor doesn’t smile.

He clears his throat.

“We also processed your results, Mr. Hernandez.”

Joel looks up. Chin tilted. Like he’s expecting praise.

“Your sample came back negative.”

Joel frowns. “Negative?”

The doctor nods. “You’re currently producing no viable sperm. We reran the sample to rule out error. Same result.”

My stomach turns.

Joel goes still.

“You’re saying…” he begins, but his voice trails off.

“I’m saying,” the doctor says flatly, “you are clinically infertile.”

Joel doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t move.

But I see it. The tiniest twitch in his cheek. The crack in the ego.

My mouth stays shut. I don’t smirk. I don’t cry. I just… breathe.

He stands slowly. Doesn’t thank the doctor. Doesn’t say a word to me.

We walk out of the hospital like corpses.

Back in the car, I expect silence.

But of course, I don’t get it.

Joel grips the wheel like it insulted him. His jaw is locked so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding.

“It’s not possible,” he mutters. “Fucking idiots. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Maybe the machine was rigged. Maybe they sabotaged the test.”

I say nothing.

“You know damn well I’ve slept with dozens of women. You think none of them got pregnant? Are you stupid?”

I don’t look at him.

He slams the heel of his palm against the wheel. “Don’t fucking look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you,” I say.

“Exactly. You’ve got that smug fucking silence like you’ve been waiting to hear this all along. Like this changes anything. It doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re right,” I murmur. “It doesn’t change anything. You were already a bastard before the results came in.”

He whips his head toward me, eyes murderous.

But then something changes.

His mouth closes. His face hardens.

He looks away. Out the window.

And for the rest of the ride, he says nothing.

We pull into the driveway in silence.

Even the tires seem too loud.

When we finally reach back home, the air in the house feels heavier than before. Like it knows we’re carrying something worse inside us than we left with.

Joel walks ahead, his shoes clacking against the tiles. His shoulders are stiffer than my late aunt’s Rakel’s waist and his jaw is the most clenched I've ever seen.

I close the door behind me and speak to his back.

“We need to figure something out. Before I start the cancer treatment.”

He stops walking.

Turns slowly.

I meet his eyes.

“You need to find a solution, Joel. Because clearly, your sperm isn’t going to cut it.”

His lips curl. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said. If this whole heir thing is as important to you as you claim it is, then we’re going to need a donor.”

He scoffs. “Hell no.”

“Why?” I fold my arms. “Your father’s will didn’t say the baby had to come from your sperm. Just from my body. My vagina. That was his wording. Not yours.”

Joel says nothing. His face goes hard.

I push forward. “I can go to a sperm bank. There are plenty of healthy donors—”

“No,” he snaps. “Absolutely fucking not. You think my family name—my legacy—is going to be passed down by some faceless rando from a sperm bank?”

I shrug. “Why not? At least they’d probably treat me better.”

He glares.

“Don’t start.”

I laugh bitterly. “Too late.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Paces.

Then stops.

Stares at me.

Eyes narrow.

And says the words that change everything.

“I know the perfect person.”