He opened the car door for me himself, held my hand the whole way up, careful with me like I was a child.
The whole company watched us, and the younger women in particular looked at me with envy in their eyes.
They all thought Greg doted on me.
Only I knew he was just afraid I'd run.
He pulled me into the office, skipped the long instruction sheet entirely, took out the special drug, poured a glass of water, and told me to take it.
"This drug is for treating allergies, but no pregnant woman in the country has done a clinical trial on it, so I don't dare let Sophie take it. You take one first. If nothing happens, keep taking it, three times a day."
He was as cold as a machine.
Like he was running a test on a sow, no feeling in it at all.
I stroked my belly, felt my womb slowly stretching, the baby struggling inside, wave after wave of sharp pain.
"Greg."
I called his name softly.
"Have you thought about what happens if I take this and miscarry? I'm your wife, I'm carrying your child. Do we mean nothing to you at all?"
"You're different."
He answered without a second's thought.
"If you miscarry, you can still have children later. But Sophie might only ever get this one child in her whole life. You owe it to her to help a little. Things aren't easy for her."
Things aren't easy for her?
Just like they say online. To a man, every woman except his own has it hard.
I racked my brain and never once imagined a thing like this happening between Sophia Shepherd and my husband.
And from the day I met Sophia, I knew her mind ran wild, always doing the last thing you'd expect.
At sixteen she'd made it her mission to stay childfree, swearing she would never marry, never have a baby.
She didn't take care of her body, ran it down early, and by twenty-five she was diagnosed with premature ovarian failure.
The doctor advised her to have a child, or she never would.
Sophia panicked, asked her family for a sum of money, went all the way to an overseas sperm bank, picked a child, had it implanted, and came home.
The implant succeeded. As long as her pregnancy went smoothly, ten months later she'd give birth to a mixed-race baby.
No one supported Sophia. Only Greg did.
The day he learned she was pregnant, he was as happy as if he'd become a father himself, donated three hundred thousand to a charity, and prayed for her and the baby's safety.
I was pregnant at the same time, and I saw not a trace of joy on his face, just a few flat words of reminder.
Drink plenty of hot water, get your rest.
Because Sophia was carrying a mixed-race baby, the rejection reaction in her body was stronger, and it left her feeling terrible.
And the moment she felt unwell, she'd call Greg, day or night, no matter the hour.
Sometimes Greg didn't come home at night and didn't even tell me.
At two in the morning I found out from Sophia's social media that she'd suddenly wanted porridge, so Greg had bought a whole load of ingredients and gone to her place to cook it for her.
She'd posted a photo of his back, with a heartfelt caption.
"If every man were as gentle and thoughtful as my sister's husband, I'd never stay childfree my whole life!"
I laughed, not sure what she meant by it.
Every time, she said she saw me like her own sister, and behind my back she did things like this.
If we weren't still partners, co-invested in a company we'd started together, I might have turned on her right then.
For the sake of one last shred of dignity, I stayed up and sent Sophia a long string of messages, but she didn't dare answer a single word.
Within twenty minutes, Greg came home under the stars, and never mind that I was pregnant and resting, he grabbed me and tore into me.
"What are you jealous of Sophie for? I can't even be good to her? Everything I do is so she'll keep working with you, keep making value for you, isn't it?"
"Go apologize to your Sophie right now, take back all that whiny nonsense. You made her worry all night, made her send me home in the dark."
