Chapter 27
OLIVIA
I glide my hands down the front of my dress for approximately the billionth time as Camille pulls into the Mass General parking garage. The navy sheath dress she forced on me looks good, but I can’t stop adjusting it.
“You look great,” Camille scolds when she sees me fidgeting. “Stop with the fussing.”
“I’m not fussing.”
“Are too. You keep checking your lipstick like you think your mouth is gonna fall off if you don’t keep an eye on it. Stressing won’t change a thing, Liv, and your mouth ain’t going anywhere.”
“Who says I’m stressing? I’m not stressing. There’s not even anything to stress about. If I were stressed, would I be able to do… this?” I paste on the biggest smile I can, but Cami just rolls her eyes at my obviously stressed-out antics.
“You’re not fooling me. You want to look good for when your mother inevitably judges your appearance. I get it. Believe me, I do.”
She’s… not wrong. If her track record is anything to go by, Dr. Mom is inevitably going to have opinions about everything, especially about how her daughter presents herself.
Too casual means I’m not taking my career seriously. Too formal means I’m trying too hard. There’s no winning, but I keep trying anyway. If I could afford a therapist, she’d probably call this textbook masochism.
Good thing I can’t afford one.
Well, not yet. Maybe after today.
“This is a big day,” I murmur as we wind up to the third level. “Our clinic at Mass Gen. It’s really happening.”
“It is.” Camille grins. “And you deserve every bit of it. My little rockstar.” She parks the car and plants a smooch on my head, then slicks down my flyaways and straightens my dress straps.
We climb out of the car and make our way to the elevators. My stomach churns with a mix of excitement and dread. This should be one of the best days of my professional life. But knowing my mother will be there, ready to make it about herself somehow, dampens the joy.
She’s like the Houdini of ruining special occasions. Just when you think she can’t find a way to do it, presto change-o alakazam, there she goes and does it.
The executive conference room is on the seventh floor. As soon as the elevator doors open, I spot her. Margaret Aster stands in the hallway, holding court with three board members. Her silver hair is pulled back in her signature chignon, her white coat pristine and sharply pressed.
“There she is!” she announces, voice pitched loud enough for everyone to hear. “My brilliant daughter.”
It’d be a nice compliment, if I didn’t know better. Seeing as how I do, though, all I can notice is that her praise never comes without an attentive audience at hand and the hooks of her expectations attached.
“Dr. Aster,” one of the board members greets, extending his hand to shake as we approach. “Congratulations on the partnership.”
“Thank you, Dr. Clayton. It’s an honor.”
“Your mother was just telling us about your recent good fortune,” another board member says. Dr. Zola Middleton, if I remember correctly. “In your personal life, I mean.”
My stomach does a sickening 360. “My personal life?”
“Don’t be modest, Olivia.” Margaret’s smile is fanged. “Everyone’s dying to hear about Stefan.”
“Mother—”
“She’s living with him now,” Margaret continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “And expecting his child. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The hallway goes silent. Every eye turns to me. My face burns.
“That’s... that’s not really relevant to—”
“Oh, but it is,” Mom interrupts. “The Safonov name carries weight in this city. And Stefan has already shown such generous support for Olivia’s work. I’m sure we can expect continued donations to the hospital as well.”
“Mother, please—”
But she’s on a roll now, turning back to the board members. “You know how these powerful families are. They understand the importance of investing in healthcare. In prestigious legacy institutions like Mass Gen.”
Dr. Clayton nods thoughtfully. “That would certainly be beneficial for our expansion plans.”
“Exactly my thoughts, Doctor.” Margaret beams. “And with a grandchild on the way, well, I’m sure Stefan will want to ensure the best possible medical care is available for his loved ones.”
I want to disappear. If I could just melt into the floor and never resurface, that would be great, please and thank you. They’re talking about me like I’m not even here. Like the only value I’m bringing to this deal is the little piece of Safonov DNA currently blossoming inside of me.
“The clinic will succeed on its own merits,” I insist.
Margaret waves a dismissive hand. “Of course, dear. But there’s no harm in acknowledging the advantages of your situation.”
Advantages. Such a bland, simple word has never been so repulsive.
“We should probably head to the conference room,” Camille interjects, bless her. “Don’t want to be late for the official meeting.”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Middleton gestures down the hall. “Shall we?”
As we walk, Margaret falls into step beside me. “You could look happier,” she chides under her breath. “This is a triumph.”
“Is it? Because it sounds like you think I only got this because I’m sleeping with Stefan.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You got this because you’re talented. But Stefan’s involvement doesn’t hurt.”
“It shouldn’t matter at all.”
“Olivia.” She stops and grips my elbow with her manicured talons, forcing me to stop, too.
“This is how the world works. Connections matter. Influence matters. Money matters. You can either accept that and use it to your advantage, or you can keep playing the martyr. Your choice. But I won’t let you choose incorrectly. ”
With that, she sweeps past me into the conference room. I stand there for a moment, hands clenched into fists, before following.
The meeting itself is a blur. Board members discuss timelines, budgets, expectations. I answer questions on autopilot, but my mind remains elsewhere. Every time someone mentions Stefan or asks about potential donations, I die a little inside.
This should be my moment. My achievement. It’s not, though.
I feel more like a prized buck being taxidermied and mounted on the wall.
God, I can’t help wishing Stefan were here.
He would know how to handle this. With one word, he’d clamp down the donations talk.
He’d shut my mother up with a single one of those scathing, brooding looks.
He’d redirect the conversation to my qualifications, my vision, my worth beyond his bank account, and he’d look so good doing it.
No one would dare defy him.
But more than that, he’d make me feel worthy. He believes in me in a way my mother never has.
To Margaret, I’m an extension of herself, a reflection of her success or, God forbid, her failure.
To Stefan, I’m... I’m just Olivia. Flawed and stubborn and sometimes too idealistic, but precious for exactly those reasons.
I wish so badly he was here.
The meeting finally, mercifully ends with handshakes and congratulations. As people filter out, I spot Dr. Heller near the coffee station.
This is my chance.
“Dr. Heller!” I call out, walking over. “Do you have a minute?”
“Dr. Aster. Of course.” She smiles warmly.
“Congratulations on the partnership, by the way. Very well deserved. We were all excited to award it to you. And let me also just say, I want you to think of me as your number one resource for the entirety of our—hopefully very long—time working together. Anything you need, I’m all yours. ”
“Thank you. Actually, I’m glad you said that, because I did want to ask you about something. Do you remember a woman named Genevieve who asked you for a fertility referral?”
Heller’s eyebrows rise. “Ms. Genevieve? Yes, she’s been very generous. Rather mysterious, though. Very private.”
“She contacted me about my clinic. Said you had recommended us?”
Dr. Heller frowns. “I don’t think so. Actually...” She looks embarrassed. “When she asked about fertility clinics, I recommended Dr. Walsh’s practice. At the time, I believed they had more resources, established protocols. No offense. I’ve since seen the error of my ways, of course.”
“None taken.” My pulse quickens. “Do you remember when this was?”
“Oh, months ago. Maybe three or four? She called me directly, which was surprising. Most donors go through the foundation.”
“Called you? Do you have her number?”
“I’m afraid not.” She shakes her head. “She always blocks her caller ID. And she’s never given me a way to reach her. She just calls when she wants to talk.”
“I see.” I try to keep the disappointment off my face. “I’m only asking because we had a meeting, but it ended abruptly. I was hoping to follow up with her.”
“I understand.” Heller pulls out her phone. “Tell you what, I’ll make a note. If she contacts me again, I’ll let her know you’d like to speak with her.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Of course.” She pockets her phone and meets my eyes. But then her forehead furrows. “Though I should mention, she’s quite particular about her privacy. She may not appreciate me passing along messages.”
“I understand. But if you could try...”
“I will.” She glances at her watch and clicks her tongue. “So sorry to be rude, but I should run. Surgery in an hour. Congratulations again, Dr. Aster. The hospital is lucky to have you.”
She strides away, leaving me standing by the coffee station. Another dead end. Natalia—Genevieve—has covered her tracks well. No phone number, no address. I’m stuck with no way to reach her except to wait and hope she reaches out first.
“There you are!” Camille appears at my elbow. “Your mother’s looking for you.”
“Of course she is.”
“She wants to take you to lunch. To celebrate.”
The last thing I want is to sit through a meal with Margaret. Off the top of my head, I’d prefer a root canal, watching paint dry, or repeatedly dropping heavy, pointed objects on my bare foot.
“Tell her I can’t. We have too much work to do.”
“Already tried. She’s insisting.”
I close my eyes and take a breath. “Fine. But you’re coming with us.”
“Oh no. No way. I have urgent... filing. Very urgent filing that cannot wait.”
“Camille.”
“Please don’t make me. Your mother terrifies me, okay? She looks at me like she’s doing the mental math on how many of my organs she could harvest while keeping me technically alive.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “She’s a surgeon. She looks at everyone that way.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Yes. Which is why I need you there as a buffer.”
Camille sighs dramatically. “You owe me. Like, a lot. Like, ‘naming your firstborn after me’ level of owing me.”
“You say that like I wasn’t already planning it.” I loop my arm through hers and drag her along after me. “C’mon, it’ll be fine,” I promise, putting on the bravest face I can. “I’d say we deserve a nice meal on someone else’s dime anyway.”