Chapter 28
twenty-eight
. . .
Natalie
I haven’t slept more than three hours a night since New Year’s Eve. Every time I close my eyes, I see Rebecca’s face. That unreadable expression. When she looked at my belly and said, “Let’s talk when we’re back at work.”
Which is today. The nausea hits before I’m even out of bed, sharper than usual, my stomach churning with what I wish was only morning sickness but I know is pure dread. My phone lights up on the nightstand.
Jake
Morning. You looked so peaceful, so I didn’t want to wake you when I left. I left you some breakfast. Good luck today - call me when you can.
He’s stayed with me all week offering reassurances and saying Rebecca won’t fire me, that she’s too smart for that, that my talent speaks for itself.
But I’m not sure he gets it. It’s not his fault, it’s just that men never have to walk into rooms wondering if their career will implode the second someone notices their body.
I type back with shaking hands.
Natalie
I will.
I force myself into the shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders, trying to wash away the exhaustion that’s settled into my bones. The baby’s been kicking constantly, like she knows I’m stressed. Like she’s reminding me she’s here, that this is real, that there’s no going back now.
I press my hand to my stomach, feeling a flutter of movement beneath my palm. “We’ve got this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure which one of us I’m trying to convince.
Getting dressed takes longer than it should. Every outfit feels wrong. Too tight across my belly, too obviously maternity, too much evidence of what I’ve been hiding. I finally settle on black leggings and an oversized sweater, the same uniform I’ve been wearing for weeks.
I’m sitting in my car outside the FlixPix offices, gripping my steering wheel and trying to remember how to breathe.
I force myself out of the car and into the building.
The elevator ride to the third floor feels like it takes a year.
When I step out, the assistant at the desk gives me a sympathetic look.
“She’s waiting for you in her office.”
Great.
I walk down the hallway on shaky legs, past the writers’ room where I’ve spent the last month proving myself, past the offices of other producers and executives, and straight to Rebecca’s door at the end.
I stop outside, pressing my hand to my stomach. The baby kicks, a solid thump against my palm, and something in my chest loosens just a fraction. I knock.
“Come in.”
Rebecca’s sitting behind her desk, looking polished and professional as always. She gestures to the chair across from her.
“Close the door and sit down.”
I sit, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure she can hear it. She studies me for a long moment, and I can’t read her expression at all.
“How far along are you?” she asks finally.
“Six months. I’m due at the end of March.”
Rebecca nods slowly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
I take a breath. “I wanted to prove I could do the work first. That I deserved to be here. I didn’t want you to think I was a liability or that I’d be distracted or—”
“That’s not your call to make,” Rebecca interrupts.
The words hit like a slap.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“Do you know what makes a good writers’ room work?” She leans forward. “Trust. Teamwork. Communication. You keeping this from me undermines all three.”
Tears are already burning behind my eyes, but I force them back. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You should have told me. Not because I needed to plan around you, but because you deserved support, or possibly accommodations.” She pauses. “Instead, you’ve been hiding in oversized sweaters and lying about why you won’t eat sushi.”
“I wasn’t lying, I just—”
“Natalie.” Rebecca’s voice softens slightly. “I get it. I do. This industry is brutal to women. Especially women who want families. But you made a choice that affected more than just you.”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Rebecca sits back in her chair, and something shifts in her expression. Less anger, more weariness.
“I didn’t have kids,” she says quietly. “I chose this career instead. Every time I thought about starting a family, there was another show, another project, another opportunity I couldn’t pass up. And now I’m forty-three and it’s too late.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Rebecca—”
She lifts her hand, indicating she’s not finished talking. “I’m telling you this because you need to understand something. You can have both. You’re allowed to have both. But only if you let people help you. Let me help you.”
The tears spill over now, and I swipe at them angrily.
Relief is crashing through me in waves, mixing with gratitude and something that feels like—fuck me—I think it feels like hope.
Rebecca isn’t firing me. She’s supporting me.
She’s giving me exactly what I need, and I didn’t even know how to ask for it.
My hand finds my stomach again, protective and instinctive. The baby shifts beneath my palm, and I think about what Rebecca just said. That she chose her career over having kids. That it’s too late for her now. And here I am convinced I have to choose too.
But maybe I don’t. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I really can have both.
I wipe my face again. “I’m sorry. Hormones.”
“Don’t apologize for crying in my office. I’ve cried in here plenty.” She opens her laptop. “Now let’s figure out how we make this work.”
“Make it work?”
“You think I’m firing you? Natalie, you’re one of the best writers I’ve had in a room in years. I’m not letting you go because you’re having a baby.” She pulls up what looks like a production calendar. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We push production.”
“Push it?”
“Originally we were slated to start in April. But if we push to July, you can take maternity leave from April through June. Will that be enough? Can you come back in July?”
I stare at her. “You’d do that?”
“The network’s flexible on timing. And honestly, another few months of prep won’t hurt.” She makes a note on her screen. “The writers’ room will continue through March. We’ll have all the scripts locked before you go on leave. Then when you come back in July, you’ll be on set for production.”
“I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll communicate with me from now on. If you’re tired, if you need a break, if you’re struggling—tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good.” Rebecca closes her laptop and gives me a very direct look. “This job is hard. Pregnancy is hard. Doing both at once? Even harder. But I believe you can do it. I just need you to trust me enough to let me support you.”
The tears are coming faster now, and I can’t stop them. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go get yourself together and meet me in the writers’ room in twenty minutes. We have episodes to write.”
I stand, wiping my face. “Rebecca?”
“Yeah?”
“I really am sorry. For not telling you sooner.”
She nods. “I know. And for what it’s worth, I’m excited for you. You’re going to be a great mom.”
When the meeting ends, I practically run to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and let myself fall apart. Relief crashes over me in waves. I’m not fired. They’re supporting me. I get maternity leave.
When I can finally breathe again, I pull out my phone. My fingers hover over Jake’s name for just a second before I press call. The realization hits me square in the chest that he’s the first person I want to talk to.
He answers on the first ring. “How’d it go?”
His voice is low and warm and steady, and something in my chest cracks open. I close my eyes, picturing him at his desk, probably gripping his phone too tight, waiting to hear if I’m okay.
“I’m not fired.”
“I told you.” There’s relief in his voice, thick and real. “What did she say?”
“They’re pushing production to July. I’ll have maternity leave from April through June.”
“Nat, that’s amazing.”
The baby kicks hard, right beneath my ribs, like she’s celebrating too. I press my palm there, feeling her move, and a watery laugh escapes me.
“I was so scared, Jake. I thought she was going to tell me I wasn’t committed enough or that I’d lied to her or—”
“But she didn’t. You’re okay. You did it.”
I grab a few pieces of toilet paper, dabbing at my eyes even though more tears just keep coming. Happy tears this time. Relieved tears.
“She said I can have both,” I whisper. “Career and baby. That I’m allowed to have both.”
“You are. You deserve both.”
I close my eyes, leaning against the stall door. The relief I feel is overwhelming. Somewhere deep down I didn’t believe I could have it all. But Rebecca believes it. And Jake believes it.
Maybe I can start believing it too.
The baby kicks again, stronger this time, and I laugh through my tears. “She’s kicking so much. Like she knows everything’s going to be okay.”
“She knows her mom’s a badass.”
“Okay,” I say, as my throat tightens. “I need to get back to the writers’ room.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“I’m really proud of you, Nat.”
The words settle warm in my chest. “Thank you. For everything.”
After we hang up, I clean myself up in the mirror. My eyes are red and my makeup is smudged, but I don’t care. I fix what I can and head to the writers’ room.
When I walk in, everyone looks up. The energy in the room shifts slightly, and I realize they must have heard I was meeting with Rebecca this morning.
“Hey,” Bernard says carefully. “You good?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
Rebecca walks in behind me, coffee in hand. “Okay, people. Let’s get to work. We have an episode to write.”
And just like that, we’re back to normal. Breaking stories, pitching jokes, building the world of Spellbound.
Around lunchtime, we break for the catered spread that’s been set up in the corner. I’m loading my plate with more food than I’ve eaten in weeks when Priya appears beside me.
“So,” she says quietly, “I take it the meeting went well?”
I glance at her. “How did you—”
“Rebecca called me in on Friday. Wanted to talk through production timeline adjustments.” She grabs a sandwich. “Said we might be pushing our start date to accommodate a team member’s maternity leave. Didn’t take a genius to figure out who.”
Heat floods my face. “Oh.”
“If you want my take?” Priya leans closer, her voice warm. “I think it’s badass that you’re doing this while pregnant. Like, actual superhero levels of badass.”
I smile despite myself. “Thank you.”
On the drive home, I let myself feel it. All of it. The relief, the gratitude, the overwhelming sense that maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay.