Chapter 3
Chapter three
Zonnique Guidry
“I’m so sorry about that,” I apologized quickly, bending down to help Dr. Fairchild gather the scattered papers that Merge had knocked across the floor.
I could feel my voice trembling with anxiety, even as I forced myself to sound composed.
“He’s just … under a lot of pressure,” I added, trying to make excuses for him.
Dr. Fairchild hands were still trembling as he picked up the last few sheets.
“It’s fine, Miss Guidry. Mr. Belvior is… a very direct man.”
“That’s a polite way of saying he’s a nightmare before breakfast,” I muttered, trying to inject some humor into the situation, but my laugh fell flat.
When the last sheet hit his desk, I straightened up, smoothing my dress.
“Dr. Fairchild, how accurate are those results? I mean, five percent? That’s practically zero in my situation.”
Dr. Fairchild released a long, slow breath, as if he was bracing himself for what he had to say next.
“The scans and hormone panels are conclusive, Miss Guidry. The scar tissue is significantly hindering successful implantation.” He paused, his voice steady but noticeably gentler.
“And if I’m being completely honest with you, based on what I saw in your imaging and lab results, there’s almost no chance of a successful pregnancy—naturally or through IVF.
Even if the embryo did implant, the environment of the uterus is hostile.
I would strongly advise you to consider a surrogate. ”
My face fell and lips parted. I wanted to respond, but nothing came out.
Dr. Fairchild rubbed a hand down his jaw, clearly uneasy.
“I didn’t say this while Mr. Belvior was in the room,” he added, voice lowering to a cautious whisper, “because frankly… he’s intimidating, and I didn’t want to be the reason he lost his temper again.
I just thought it was safer—for both of us—if I saved the harsher truth for a private moment. ”
I rolled my neck with a slight sass in my tone. “Which is?”
He looked at me, shoulders tight with the weight of what he’d said.
“I know this isn’t easy to hear,” he said carefully.
“But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I allowed you to place your hopes on a five-percent chance.
Under these circumstances, those odds simply aren’t reliable enough to build your plans around. ”
The folder sat there on the desk between us, mocking me. A death sentence wrapped in medical jargon and test results.
Dr. Fairchild was still talking about treatment options, specialists… even hope, but I couldn’t hear him anymore. All I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, loud and frantic, like my body knew what my brain was still trying to deny.
“So basically, it’s over?” I finally asked a bit defeated.
His expression softened into that practiced sympathy doctors probably learned in medical school.
“I wouldn’t say that. There’s always science... and faith. IVF is still a strong option that many couples have successfully pursued.”
I shook my head, cutting her off. “Probably not for me, though, right?” I quipped.
He hesitated, and that pause told me everything I needed to know.
“The scarring does complicate things,” he admitted carefully. “But it’s not impossible. With the right specialist, the right protocol—”
I almost laughed.
Ten minutes ago, his ass just told me my uterine walls were so damaged that natural conception was “highly unlikely.” Now he’s talking as if IVF is some magic solution, like scarred organs would suddenly cooperate because we throw science, medication, and money at the problem.
“So, you’re saying my body is too fucked up to do what it’s supposed to do naturally, but if I pump myself full of hormones and let doctors harvest my eggs like I’m some kind of science experiment, then maybe—maybe—I’ll get lucky?”
I scoffed.
I wish all doctors would stop sugarcoating shit by trying to sell people dreams instead of delivering facts.
These same doctors know there are actual cures for cancer, real solutions that can eliminate it—whether it’s what person eats, how they live, or treatments that actually work—but they won’t say it directly because there’s no money in honesty or in admitting what could actually be fixed; there’s only money in false hope, expensive hope, hope that keeps patients coming back for procedures and consultations and specialists who all need their cut.
This whole world operates on money. Every system is built on the same lie: words, procedures, and timelines all carefully constructed to sound important enough, necessary enough, and possible enough to keep extracting money from desperate people with no other options.
Dr. Fairchild’s mouth tightened slightly. “I understand this is difficult—”
“It’s cool,” I interrupted. “I understand... somewhat. Besides, I don’t have enough time for all of that.”
He blinked, confused. “Time? Miss Guidry, you’re thirty years old. You still have—”
“I don’t,” I corrected politely, grabbing my purse. “Trust me. Thank you for everything. Have a good day.”
With a heavy heart, I turned on my heel and walked out before my composure could shatter completely.
Dr. Fairchild didn’t know about the one-year deadline that Merge had left to produce an heir before everything he’d worked for got handed to someone else. IVF took years sometimes… multiple cycles, each one a roller coaster of hope and devastating failure, repeatedly until maybe a miracle happened.
I didn’t have years; I had a few months.
Once outside, the air felt overwhelmingly bright, and the noise of the bustling street seemed amplified.
The driver straightened up when he saw me.
“Ma’am, Mr. Belvior said he needed a… breather,” he informed me.
I stared down the empty stretch of street where Merge had vanished.
“Of course he did.”
I let out a long sigh and slid into the back seat, shutting the door harder than I meant to.
For a moment I just sat there, hands limp in my lap.
When Merge first told me about the arrangement, I thought I’d just been handed the keys to the life I’d prayed for.
He said marriage like it was business… as though it meant nothing.
Me, on the other hand? I was already picturing silk robes, designer shoes, candlelit bathtubs, and credit cards with no limits.
However, after hearing the news that had just come out of Dr. Fairchild’s mouth, that fantasy was bleeding out inside a manila folder on his desk, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting my thoughts unravel.
Five percent.
Highly unlikely.
Not guaranteed.
Polite doctor-speak for “you're fucked.”
Those words made my entire future collapse like glass.
My stomach twisted violently as I sat in that office.
For a second I thought I might’ve thrown up right there on Dr. Fairchild’s pristine white carpet.
My hands were shaking so badly I had to press them flat against my thighs to stop them.
Then I begin digging my nails into the expensive fabric of my dress.
I wanted to rip it off my body and scream until my throat bled…
but I didn’t. I just sat there, nodding like I understood, like I wasn’t about to shatter into a thousand pieces the second I left his office.
I’d done everything to get there. I smiled when I wanted to scream, swallowed my pride until it tasted like rust, reinvented myself, changed my hair, my voice, hell, even my circle… all to be told my body had betrayed me.
A bitter laugh slipped out.
Maybe God is punishing me.
Unknown to Merge, I did have two abortions before he ever came into the picture. Those were choices I’d justified back when life was messy, money was short, and love was conditional. I told myself I’d make it right one day—when I had the house, the husband, the ring. Now, that day might never come.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, tears pricking my eyes but refusing to fall.
“I wanted that baby,” I murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Maybe not for the right reasons, but I still wanted it.”
Merge wasn’t just a man; he was an entire upgrade.
Becoming his wife meant a lifetime of luxury, respect, and security.
I could’ve dealt with his coldness, the way he looked at me sometimes like I was an inconvenience he had to tolerate, the silence, the distance, the nights he didn't come home, and the mornings he barely acknowledged I existed.
Why?
Because at the end of the day, I still would’ve been Mrs. Belvior. I’d still have the name, the status, and the life I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl watching reality TV and imagining what it would feel like to be that woman.
Yeah, I had my boutique, my name in certain circles, and my own money.
But being Mrs. Belvior? That was different.
That was the promise I made to that little girl who watched her mother work two jobs and still couldn’t keep the lights on.
Now that promise looks nothing but a cruel fucking joke, because I can’t give him the one thing he actually needs from me.
And without that, I was just another disposable woman in his world. And I knew what happened to people who couldn’t deliver in the Belvior family. I’d heard the whispers and saw the way certain names just disappeared from conversations.
People were useful one day and gone the next, like they’d never existed at all.
I also knew Merge didn't tolerate failure or weakness… and I’d just become both.
A gem from my grandmother floated back to me at that moment.
When you chase things that glitter, you end up swallowing glass.
I laughed at that once, now it felt like prophecy.
My own voice answered back in my head.
Then maybe I just need sharper teeth.
I sat up straighter and wiped the smudge of mascara from beneath my eye.
If I couldn’t carry Merge’s child, I’d find another way to make myself impossible to replace.
He might hate me, but he won’t get rid of me that easily.