4. The PR Machine
Chapter four
The PR Machine
Sutton
Ilay back on the padded examination table, shifting my weight against the stiff sanitary paper. The thin material crinkled in the quiet room. The ultrasound technician turned toward me, holding a plastic bottle of clear gel.
“Just lift the hem of your shirt a few inches higher for me,” she said, her tone professional and calm. “The gel is going to be a little cold.”
“That’s fine,” I replied. “I’m ready.”
I bunched the hem of my shirt just below my ribs. The technician squeezed the bottle. A viscous, freezing bead of gel hit my bare stomach. I bit my lip, gripping the metal edges of the examination table as she pressed the ultrasound wand into my skin.
She moved the wand in slow circles, applying a steady pressure. I stared at the medical monitor on the wall, watching the fuzzy gray and black shapes shift across the screen. My grip on the table tightened. I felt as lonely as I always did waiting in that massive Los Angeles house.
The technician stopped moving the wand. She clicked a button on her console, zooming in on a tiny gray blur near the center of the screen.
“There it is, Mrs. Gallagher,” she said, pointing a pen at the monitor. “A strong, healthy heartbeat.”
She twisted a dial on the machine. A frantic, rhythmic thumping filled the sterile room, bouncing off the walls. Thump-thump-thump. The sound drowned out every lonely hour I spent waiting for my husband to come home. I pulled my hand away from the table edge and clamped it over my mouth.
It was real. After weeks of waiting and hoping, the physical proof was right here on the screen.
I pictured Hayes sitting in our cramped apartment three years ago, the undeniable joy breaking across his face when Eleanor told him he booked the franchise lead.
Showing him this tiny gray blur would bring that exact man back to me.
“It’s so fast,” I whispered, tears pooling in my eyes. “It doesn’t even look real yet, but I can hear it.”
“It’s very real, I promise you,” the technician replied with a warm smile.
She pressed a final button on the console.
A printer whirred to life in the corner, spitting out a strip of glossy paper.
She pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the counter and handed them to me.
I wiped the sticky residue from my stomach, balling them up.
I tugged my shirt back down to my waist.
“Here are your printouts,” she said, handing me the sonogram photos and an envelope. “Take your time getting dressed, and I’ll meet you out at the front desk.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone in the quiet clinic room.
I stood beside the table, staring at the sonograms. My fingers fumbled and shook as I tried to slide the glossy photos into the envelope.
I slipped the envelope into my purse, eager to hand my husband the physical proof of our baby.
I stopped, resting my purse on the counter. The receptionist clicked her mouse a few times before handing over a clipboard. I took the clipboard and reviewed the checkout forms, signing the bottom before handing the paperwork back across the desk.
“Have a wonderful afternoon, Mrs. Gallagher,” the receptionist said, organizing the files into a neat stack. “We will see you back here next month for your follow-up.”
“Thank you so much,” I replied. I grabbed my bag off the counter and looped the strap over my shoulder. “I’ll call if I have any questions before then.”
I turned away from the desk and walked toward the exit.
The sliding glass doors parted with a mechanical hum as I stepped out into the Los Angeles afternoon.
The sun was blistering. Heat radiated upward from the blacktop, baking the stagnant air of the parking lot.
I walked toward my parked sedan, digging blindly into my purse until I felt my phone. I pulled it out.
I needed to hear his voice. I wanted to tell him to clear his evening schedule and come home immediately so I could show him the printouts. I stopped at the rear bumper of my car and pressed my thumb against the screen to unlock it.
The display illuminated, fighting the harsh glare of the sun. Before I could call him, my timeline refreshed, pushing a new photograph right to the top. My breath caught.
I stared at the photo. Blaire Hastings stared back at me. She perched on the arm of a chair, leaning directly over Hayes’s lap. Their faces pressed close together in the dim, familiar lighting of his private studio trailer.
The joy vanished. I expected to see his usual rigid posture. I expected him to look trapped by another mandatory PR stunt orchestrated by Eleanor. I zoomed in on his face.
He didn’t look trapped. He didn’t look uncomfortable. A relaxed, genuine smile stretched across his face. He leaned into her touch. The heat of the sun beat down on my shoulders, but a cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck.
My stomach turned. I dragged my thumb down the screen to reveal the text below the image.
“Fun times in the trailer with Hayes fine-tuning the script,” I whispered, reading the caption out loud to the empty parking lot. “He’s a dream to work with. In every way. Winky face.”
I stared at the thousands of likes and comments climbing beneath the photo.
The internet applauded their undeniable chemistry.
The PR machine was successfully selling a romance, and my husband was playing along.
I looked down at the purse containing my secret, and then back at the glass screen.
While I was inside listening to our child’s heartbeat, he was letting another woman claim him for the entire world to see.
I scrolled down. Rows of text loaded below the photograph, blurring together under the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. I watched the endless cascade of comments. Thousands of strangers were cheering for a romance, entirely oblivious to the wife standing in a parking lot with his baby.
“How can he just smile?” I whispered to the glass.
The blacktop seemed to tilt beneath my shoes. The edges of the clinic building blurred as a dizzy, sickening wave washed over me. I stumbled, my shoulder bumping against the hot metal of the car parked next to mine. I closed my eyes against the oppressive heat of the lot.
A sudden hand pressed against my bare arm.
I snapped my head up, my eyes flying open. An older woman stood inches away from me. Her hand remained there, while her other gripped the strap of a floral diaper bag. Past her open door, a toddler kicked his feet in a car seat.
“Sweetheart, you look like you’re about to faint right here against the car,” she said, her brow creased with concern. “Do you need me to run back inside and grab one of the nurses for you?”
I lowered the phone to my side. Years of Eleanor’s conditioning kicked in, demanding composure. I forced my spine straight and pulled my shoulders back. I smoothed my expression into a polite, detached smile, stepping away from the bumper to escape her touch.
“Thank you for asking, but I’m perfectly alright,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I just received some highly unexpected news from home that I need to go deal with immediately.”
The woman frowned, assessing my face. She did not look convinced.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked, leaning slightly closer. “You’ve gone pale, honey, so please just sit down in your car for a minute before you drive.”
“I promise, I’m fine,” I replied. “Thank you again.”
I turned my back on her and stepped toward my car.
I pulled the door open. A suffocating wave of trapped, searing heat rolled out of the cabin, hitting my face.
I dropped my purse onto the passenger seat, ensuring the envelope holding the sonogram printouts remained hidden beneath the leather flap.
I climbed inside and pulled the heavy door shut, sealing myself off from the lot.
I dropped the phone into the center console. The air inside the car burned my skin, but I refused to roll down the windows. I sat in the stifling quiet.
He was going to apologize. He would walk through the front door tonight, blame the photograph on his mother’s aggressive marketing strategy, and tell me it meant nothing. I just needed to get home.
I gripped the searing steering wheel, preparing to drive home and look my husband in the eye.
I stood in the center of the kitchen, pressing my hip against the edge of the counter. The silence of the house amplified the hum of the refrigerator. My purse sat inches from my right hand. The flap remained closed, hiding the envelope of sonograms inside.
I stared at the bag, begging him to give me a reason to open it.
“I will always come home to you,” he had promised in our old apartment.
The memory played on a loop in my head. I needed him to walk through the door and realize he made a mistake. I needed him to look at my face, panic, and swear he hated every second of that photoshoot. The fantasy was the only thing keeping me standing in the room.
A deadbolt clicked down the hallway. The front door groaned open and shut. Dress shoes thudded against the floorboards, the rhythm dragging as he approached the kitchen.
Hayes turned the corner, his shoulders slumped forward. A faint layer of studio makeup still clung to his jawline, masking his natural complexion. He carried his keys in his left hand, while his right hand yanked at the knot of his silk tie.
He did not look at me. He kept his gaze focused on the floor, exhaling a long, tired breath.
“Leave your jacket on the stool,” I said.
He stopped walking. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the nearest barstool. He tugged his tie loose, leaving it hanging around his neck. He tossed his keys onto the center island, the ring sliding to a halt.
“Did Maria leave any coffee in the pot?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
“No,” I replied. “She emptied the carafe after lunch.”
He raised both hands, pressing his palms into his eyes.