The morning air was crisp.
Charlie walked out of the revolving glass doors of the penthouse building, a simple canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder.
She hailed a yellow cab and gave the driver an address on the Upper East Side.
Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to a quiet, tree-lined street. Charlie paid the fare and stepped out.
She pushed open the heavy glass doors of the private clinic. The faint, calming scent of lavender washed over her.
The receptionist smiled warmly, taking her ID card to confirm her appointment.
Charlie was directed to the VIP waiting area on the second floor. The plush sofas were arranged to offer maximum privacy.
She sat down in a single armchair hidden behind a massive potted Monstera plant. She picked up a maternity magazine from the side table, using it as a shield for her anxiety.
At the end of the hallway, the elevator chimed. The doors slid open.
The sharp, authoritative click of expensive leather shoes against marble echoed down the corridor.
Charlie's fingers froze on the glossy page. A sickening knot formed in her stomach.
She shifted slightly, peering through the wide green leaves of the Monstera plant.
Kayson Logan was walking down the hall. He was wearing a light gray casual suit, looking softer and more relaxed than she had seen him in years.
Tucked securely under his arm was a petite woman in a Chanel maternity dress.
Alyce Murray.
Alyce suddenly stumbled, letting out a delicate, breathless gasp.
Kayson's arm tightened instantly. He pulled her flush against his side, steadying her with frantic care. He leaned down, his voice a low, urgent murmur as he asked if she was okay.
Alyce leaned her head against his chest. She placed a hand over her slight, barely-there baby bump and offered him a sweet, helpless smile.
Kayson reached out with his other hand. He covered her hand with his, his eyes filled with an overwhelming, protective devotion.
The sight was a sledgehammer to Charlie's chest. It shattered every bone in her ribcage.
She shrank back into the depths of the armchair, biting down on her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to make a sound.
He didn't hate children. He just hated the idea of a child with her.
At that exact moment, a nurse stepped into the waiting area holding a clipboard.
"Ms. Charlie Whitaker? We are ready for you," the nurse called out, her voice bright and clear.
The name echoed like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.
Down the corridor, Kayson's entire body went rigid. His head snapped toward the waiting area.
Charlie's lungs seized.
She grabbed her canvas tote, ducked low, and scrambled out from the blind spot on the other side of the plant.
She moved like a ghost, slipping into a narrow janitorial supply closet right next to the waiting area and pulling the door shut without a sound.
Kayson shoved past a chair, his long strides eating up the distance to the Monstera plant.
He stared at the empty armchair. The only thing left behind was a maternity magazine lying face down on the rug.
His jaw clenched. A dark, irritated suspicion clouded his eyes.
Alyce walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his bicep. "What is it, Kayson?" she asked softly.
Kayson tore his eyes away from the magazine. His expression hardened into ice.
"Nothing. I heard wrong," he muttered. But the muscle in his jaw twitched. He pulled out his phone with his free hand, his thumb flying across the screen to fire off a rapid text to Milo: "Pull every transaction and medical appointment under Charlie Whitaker's name in the city today. Now." Then, he placed a protective hand on the small of Alyce's back and guided her toward the chief specialist's office.
Inside the dark closet, surrounded by the sharp chemical smell of bleach and floor wax, Charlie stood with her back pressed against the door, gasping for air, the tears finally drying on her face.
