The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of a crumbling brick building. Aimee handed the driver a few crumpled bills and pushed the heavy door open.
She grabbed her suitcase and dragged it up three flights of narrow, unlit stairs. The hallway smelled strongly of stale pizza and cheap weed.
Aimee dug into her backpack and pulled out the spare brass key she had kept for her old single dorm room. She shoved it into the lock, twisted hard, and pushed the door open.
She hit the plastic light switch on the wall. The overhead bulb flickered violently for three seconds before casting a dim, yellow glow over a narrow twin bed and a scratched wooden desk piled high with old medical textbooks.
She shoved her suitcase into the corner. Her muscles ached with exhaustion, but her mind was racing. She walked over to the small sink in the corner, turned the squeaky faucet, and splashed freezing water onto her face.
The icy drops ran down her chin and soaked the collar of her shirt. She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and stared at her red-rimmed eyes in the cracked mirror. She slapped her own cheeks twice, hard, forcing herself to focus.
Aimee walked over to the desk and opened her laptop. The screen illuminated her pale face.
She opened a blank document. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out a formal letter of resignation to the private research clinic. Hamilton had used his connections to get her this high-paying, low-stress fellowship. She needed to sever every single tie to him immediately.
She hit the final period, saved the document, and connected her laptop to the dusty printer sitting on the floor. The machine groaned and squeaked as it spit out the single sheet of paper.
The next morning, Aimee changed into a clean set of navy blue scrubs. She folded the resignation letter, slid it into a brown manila envelope, and walked out of the dorm.
She took the crowded subway to the Upper East Side. The private clinic was housed in a sleek, glass-fronted building. Aimee swiped her badge at the employee entrance and walked in.
She headed straight for the reception desk to drop the envelope off with the administrative assistant. But the desk was completely empty.
Aimee frowned and tapped her knuckles against the polished wood. As she did, her eyes fell on the receptionist's computer monitor, which had been carelessly left unlocked. The daily VIP appointment schedule was glowing brightly on the screen.
The name highlighted in the current time slot hit her like a physical blow: Celeste Robinson-Vanderbilt.
Aimee's lungs seized. She knew she shouldn't look, but a masochistic need for absolute proof took over her body. She leaned slightly over the counter, her eyes darting to the 'Reason for Visit' column.
Her medically trained eyes scanned the brief intake notes instantly. The words were impossible to misinterpret. Follow-up for astronomical HCG levels. Right next to it was the radiologist's preliminary note from the recent ultrasound: Intrauterine pregnancy, 12 weeks gestation. Normal fetal development.
The glaring pixels on the screen destroyed the last tiny fraction of doubt in her mind. Hamilton's claim of a "business arrangement" was a pathetic lie.
A wave of dizziness washed over her. Aimee bit down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Her hand shook as she carefully stepped back from the desk, leaving the computer exactly as she found it.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. A nurse walked around the corner, holding a cup of coffee and complaining loudly about a demanding patient. Aimee quickly pulled her hand back and pretended to adjust the collar of her scrubs.
She didn't leave the envelope on the desk. She gripped the manila folder tightly. She needed to hand this directly to the department head, Dr. Thorne.
Aimee marched down the pristine white hallway. Her knuckles were white from gripping the envelope. She stopped in front of Dr. Thorne's frosted glass door.
She took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. She raised her fist and knocked three times.
"Come in," Dr. Thorne's voice called out.
Aimee pushed the door open. Dr. Thorne was hunched over a microscope. He looked up and smiled warmly. "Aimee. Do we have the new assay results?"
Aimee walked straight to his desk. She held out the manila envelope with both hands. "I am resigning, Dr. Thorne. Effective immediately."
Dr. Thorne's smile vanished. He stared at the envelope in shock. "Resigning? Aimee, what is this about?"
Before Aimee could speak, the heavy office door was violently shoved open from the outside, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.
Hamilton Reed stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a fury that made the air itself seem to freeze. Behind him, in the hallway, Aimee caught a glimpse of Celeste—perfectly coiffed, one hand resting on her small baby bump, smiling like a cat who had swallowed the canary.
