Chapter 40 Olivia
OLIVIA
The black Maybach feels like a clown car. I’m shoved against the passenger-side door, as far away as I can physically get, but I might as well be straddling Stefan’s lap with how close we feel.
A heated urge spreads through my core at the image. Well, there’s an idea.
No, there fucking isn’t an idea. I need to focus. Big meeting, important client. Focus. Lock in. Pay attention. Your clinic might depend on this.
But I can’t. Not when I’m too aware of each breath Stefan takes, the subtle flex of his fingers on the steering wheel, the tensing of his thigh when he shifts gears.
I shouldn’t have done it. Dropping to my knees in his office, unbuckling his belt with trembling fingers… I mean, what the hell was I thinking? I needed him to agree to this meeting, and in my orgasm-addled brain, seduction seemed the most efficient way there.
What I hadn’t expected was how right it would feel to give into him again.
God, I’m pathetic.
I open my portfolio, desperate for distraction. But the client dossier blurs before my eyes. What was her name again? Genevieve. Potential surrogate. Potential investor. Potential savior.
“We’re here,” Stefan announces as he guides the car to a stop outside the upscale rentable workspace.
He’d decided my office wasn’t a safe place to take this meeting, since someone could be staking out the building in wait.
Who would be doing that is still not clear to me, but I’m grateful to be taking this meeting at all, so I didn’t push my luck by asking more questions.
The car engine settles into a predatory idle. It’s a good match for the dangerous energy radiating from the man beside me.
I close the folder and take a deep breath, but before I can open the door, Stefan’s hand closes over the handle.
“I’m coming in with you.” His jaw is set and his forehead furrowed.
“We had an agreement,” I remind him. “You promised to wait in the car while I handle this meeting alone.”
His eyes scan the surrounding buildings. I follow his gaze but see only the normal bustle of Boston’s financial district: suits rushing to afternoon meetings, sleek cars navigating narrow streets. Nothing that says “danger” to my civilian gaze.
“This is a private client meeting,” I add. “I need to maintain some semblance of professionalism.”
I’m sure he’s thinking what I’m thinking: That ship sailed several orgasms ago, sweetheart.
I pretend I’m still a woman with dignity and lift my chin. “I mean, what’s the point of all your security measures if I can’t even conduct a simple business meeting?”
“Your safety comes before your business.”
“My safety doesn’t matter without my business.”
It’s sad but true. What am I without my life’s work? More importantly, what are the two of us without my clinic? Without an end goal, there’s nothing keeping us together. We’d drift apart, bound by nothing.
His eyes rake over my face, then down to my still-flat stomach. For one disorienting moment, I imagine what it would be like if this were real—if we were a normal couple expecting a baby together.
He’d say something sweet, maybe, and make me feel loved. He’d smile and touch me and everything would be right in the world.
But that’s not this world, is it?
No, it’s not. In this reality, all he does is harden his clenched jaw and say. “I’m just protecting my investment.”
Message received.
I glare at him with at least a half-dose of my usual venom. “For all we know,” I say, “I’m not even pregnant yet. You might not have an investment to protect.”
That barb is mostly just designed to deal maximum psychological damage. If great sex ups our chances, I’d be birthing quadruplets any second now, but that’s not how this works.
Still, his eyes darken. Unreadable thoughts pass through them.
Then he sighs and rips his gaze away. “One hour, like we agreed,” he finally concedes. “Then I’m coming in. That’s non-negotiable.”
I nod. I wonder if he’s thinking what it looks like he’s thinking. Is he remembering how I taste, how I sound when I come apart for him? Is he considering whether the tinted windows are dark enough to take me right here in the front seat of his ridiculously expensive car?
Does he know I’d let him?
He has to.
Which is why I quickly step out into the crisp afternoon air. Distance, clarity—those things are severely lacking as of late. I need to find them in a hurry.
I count my breaths and my steps across the parking lot. Anything to gather myself, to put my game face on.
By the time I enter the workspace, I’ve forced myself back into Dr. Aster Mode—composed, professional, in control. I arrange my materials on the table and try not to think about the man watching from the street below.
I’ve just set up my presentation on the laminate table in front of me when the glass door of the office space opens as the second hand flicks over the twelve. Not even a second late. I like that.
Genevieve ducks her head and removes a light scarf from around her head, revealing stock straight gray hair and skin that makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be shielding myself from the sun every time I’m outside.
At the very least, it’s a good reminder that I need to add something with SPF to my morning routine.
Everything about her is dripping with wealth and refinement, like she has access to stores that the rest of us peasants couldn’t even dream of, much less afford. She settles into her chair, purse on her lap, and crosses her legs like a ballerina.
“Dr. Aster,” she greets pleasantly. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”
I try to improve my posture to match hers. “My pleasure, Mrs.—” I scan her report. “I’m sorry, my assistant didn’t write down a last name.”
“Oh, please call me Gen,” she says warmly. “Just Gen is fine.”
I don’t think we’re on nickname terms yet, but whatever makes her happy. I need this client.
“It’s my pleasure, Gen,” I reply. There’s something familiar about her bone structure, though I can’t place it. “I’ll be honest, I’m intrigued by your interest in both fertility treatments and becoming a potential investor.”
“My friend on the hospital board, Dr. Heller, spoke so highly of your work that, whether treatments are possible for me or not, I’d like to become involved in some way.”
I’m practically salivating already, but I do my best to keep my tongue in my mouth.
“I know I’m not exactly a… traditional candidate.” She gestures towards herself like I’m supposed to notice anything besides how subtle her crow’s feet are. “But…”
“There’s no such thing, in my experience,” I reassure her. “Every person and every story are different. Tell me yours.”
She smiles subtly and eases. It’s my favorite part of the job—the reason I never could get on board with expanding our services and having an overflowing wall full of pictures of babies I’ve never met delivered by women I’ve never spoken to.
I want to help people—truly help them—and I can’t do that when my clients are cogs and widgets on a lightning-fast production line.
“I suppose it all started when I lost my husband,” she begins. To my surprise, tears glisten in her eyes, and her veneer cracks ever so slightly. “Eighteen years ago now, but some days, it feels like yesterday.”
I sit with my breath trapped in my chest as she tells me about their love story—meeting at twenty, building an empire together, planning for a family that never happened. It’s gut-wrenching.
“He always said we had time,” she says with a sad smile.
“Work first, babies later. Then one morning, he just… didn’t wake up.
Aneurysm. No warning.” Her fingers trace the edge of her water glass, an idle gesture so human against her otherwise perfect composure.
“I threw myself into the business after that. Built it bigger than he ever dreamed. But success is a cold bedmate, Dr. Aster.”
I can only nod. I know how empty my apartment is some mornings. How deep that lonely silence goes.
“Now, I’m on the wrong side of fifty,” she continues, “and I realize that, while I was busy proving I could succeed without him, I forgot to live the life we’d planned.
” She dabs at the corners of her eyes and draws in a shuddering breath.
“There’s so much love in me with nowhere to go.
All these years later, I still have his toothbrush in the bathroom. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
“It’s not pathetic,” I whisper, my own eyes burning. “It’s lovely, really.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I’m honestly not sure where to go from here. My prepared presentation feels so hollow and sterile after her story. If I had it my way, I’d take her hands in mine and promise to do everything I can to help her achieve her dreams.
But professional boundaries exist for a reason—no matter how often Stefan and I have crossed them, that doesn’t mean the reason is bad. So I reach for my folder.
But Gen stops me with a soft touch on my wrist.
“I’ve studied your website and everything you’ve written,” Gen admits shyly. “I know all about your procedures. It’s why I’m here. Everyone else I’ve spoken to practically laughed me out the door. Dr. Rebecca Walsh wouldn’t even sit down with me for a meeting.”
Indignation swells on her behalf. “That’s why I’m different,” I promise. “I see my clients as people above all—not as statistics and definitely not as dollar signs. I want to help.”
Gen’s eyes swim with tears again, and I have to wipe away one of my own. Something about this woman touches me. I look into her eyes and feel like I know her.
She blinks her crying away with a laugh.
“I’m a dreamer, but that doesn’t mean I’m not practical.
I know I’m in early menopause. I know this could be the end of the family road for me.
Even if this doesn’t work out for me personally,” she says, sliding an embossed business card across the table, “I believe in what you’re building. I want to invest, Dr. Aster.”
“Wow, that is— I don’t know how to—” The words I want to say get caught and jumbled in the emotion clogging my throat. “That means so much to me. You have no idea.”
She waves my gratitude aside. “I’m sure you have investors knocking down your door with the way you’ve been in the press.
” I must look as horrified as I feel because she quickly adds, “It’s all good press, as far as I can tell.
People around here trust Stefan Safonov’s intuition.
If he’s willing to be seen with you, you must be impressive. ”
Now, I truly don’t know what to say. Confirming her theory feels like a lie. Stefan isn’t with me because I’m impressive—he’s with me because I was flailing and desperate enough to give him what he wants. Would Gen still want to invest if she knew I happily fucked my way to this meeting?
Suddenly, the woman bends forward conspiratorially. “I don’t want to pry, but I simply must ask—those rumors about you and Stefan Safonov…” Her nails tap lightly against the table. “Are they true?”
My face gets hot. “I… Er, what rumors exactly? I— We’re not—” The denial dies on my lips, too close to a lie to actually speak aloud.
What are we? Captor and captive? Business partners? Lovers? None of the labels fit, and yet… all of them do. In a way.
“Forgive me. Incredibly rude. I apologize for intruding,” Gen says, not looking sorry at all. “Consider it living vicariously through you. Two young, beautiful people falling in love? It’s hard not to imagine the lovely couple you would make.”
Those are the magic words. Well, more of a “witch’s curse” kind of magic than a fairy godmother’s brand, though—because all they conjure are a bunch of images that can never, ever happen.
Stefan on one knee, offering up a glittering diamond ring.
Stefan in a tuxedo, waiting for me on an altar.
Stefan holding our baby against his bare chest in a hospital room, eyes liquid with love as he gazes at me across that child’s downy head and smiling, soft and slow and sweet and pure.
Gen nods like she can feel my pain. “Take it from me, Dr. Aster: Life is short and love is fleeting. If you have a chance at it, grab with both hands.” She watches me with an enigmatic smile and then stands abruptly. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
I sit there for a long time after she’s gone. There are so many feelings, of course, just like there have been for days now. But the one that keeps me tethered in my seat is the feeling that I just confessed something dangerous to a complete stranger.
Something I haven’t even admitted to myself.
Until now.