That evening, I went looking for the frame.
I found it in the closet, tucked behind old tax files and a box of cables Logan never threw away. The frame was dusty. The glass had a fingerprint smudge in the corner—mine, probably, from the day we hung it.
Inside was a single dollar bill. Wrinkled. Faded. The first payment we'd ever received. Logan had kissed it. I had kissed it. We'd mounted it together in that tiny garage office in Brooklyn, back when we believed hard work and love were enough.
I carried it to the kitchen and stood there for a while, holding it under the overhead light.
I tried to remember what I'd felt that day. The excitement. The certainty. The way Logan had looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
I couldn't feel it anymore.
I opened the trash can. The frame hovered over the opening for just a second. Then I let go.
It landed with a dull thud against the bag. I closed the lid.
I walked to the bedroom, pulled out the jar, and dropped another pebble inside. The sound was sharper this time. Louder.
One left.
---
The company credit card declined at the bodega two blocks from the penthouse. I was buying milk. Just milk. The guy behind the counter looked at me with something close to pity.
"Try another one?" he offered.
I didn't have another one. Not one that worked.
I paid cash and walked home slowly, the carton cold against my ribs.
When I got back, I checked my email. There it was. A terse notice from accounting. *Your corporate card has been deactivated per executive request. For questions, contact your direct supervisor.*
I didn't contact anyone.
Two days later, I went to Logan's office to drop off a file he'd requested. The door was locked. New lock. I could see the fresh scratches around the keyhole where they'd installed it.
I left the file with his assistant.
She didn't look at me.
---
The charity gala was on a Saturday. I wasn't invited. I watched the livestream from the couch, my laptop balanced on my knees, a container of cold noodles going soft beside me.
Logan stood at the podium in a sharp tuxedo, the kind we used to joke he'd never be able to afford. Jocelyn stood just behind him, in a dress that probably cost more than my first car. White, of course. Always white.
The host handed Logan the microphone.
"I want to take a moment," Logan said, his voice warm and easy, "to recognize someone truly special. Jocelyn Evans—" He turned, gestured toward her. She smiled, perfect and practiced. "—is the heart and soul of this company. None of this would be possible without her vision and her brilliance."
Applause filled the ballroom. Cameras flashed. Jocelyn stepped forward, her hand finding Logan's, and they stood there together like they'd already won everything.
I closed the laptop.
I looked at the jar on the table. It sat there, patient. Waiting.
Not yet.
---
It started around midnight.
A dull ache in my lower abdomen. I ignored it. Then it sharpened. Then it became something I couldn't ignore.
I went to the bathroom. I sat down. I saw the blood.
I didn't understand at first. Then I did.
I called Logan. It rang four times. Voicemail.
I called again. Same.
I sat on the cold tile floor, my phone screen glowing in my shaking hand, and I tried to breathe through the cramps that felt like my body was tearing itself apart.
I pulled up his location—he'd never turned off sharing, probably forgot I still had access. He was at some rooftop bar in Tribeca. I checked his Instagram. There he was. Posted nineteen minutes ago. Logan and Jocelyn, drinks in hand, the city skyline glittering behind them. Her head on his shoulder.
I turned off my phone.
I called a taxi at 2:47 AM. The driver didn't ask why I was crying. He just drove.
---
Dr. Sandra Yuen had kind eyes and steady hands. She worked through the night, checking my vitals, running tests, her face growing more serious with each result.
"You've lost the pregnancy," she said gently. "I'm sorry."
I nodded. I'd already known.
"Your hemoglobin is dangerously low," she continued, writing something on her chart. "You're severely anemic. You need weeks of supervised rest. No stress. No physical exertion. I'm recommending—"
"I understand," I said.
She looked at me for a long moment. "Ms. Lewis, this is serious. Your body is fragile right now. You need to take care of yourself."
"I will."
She didn't believe me. I could see it in her face.
She handed me a folder of discharge papers and prescriptions. I signed where she pointed. I thanked her. I left before the sun came up.
Logan still hadn't called.
I took another taxi home. The penthouse was dark and silent. I walked to the bedroom, opened the drawer, and looked at the jar.
Not yet.
But soon.
