15. Marianne
Marianne
The glucose bottle rested on the laminate counter.
Marianne stared at the neon orange liquid sloshing inside.
A bitter, artificial citrus scent wafted from the open cap, triggering a fresh wave of nausea.
She braced her palms against the edge of the reception desk.
The Maplewood Community Clinic waiting room hummed behind her, loud and chaotic.
She lifted the bottle to her mouth. The syrup coated her tongue, clinging to the roof of her mouth like a suffocating film. She stopped drinking. She swallowed against the sweetness, fighting the immediate urge to gag.
“Just swallow it,” she muttered.
She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and forced the rest of the syrup down her throat.
The empty container hit the counter with a hollow tap.
Marianne pushed it through the gap in the sliding glass partition.
Nurse Diane sat on the other side, typing on her keyboard.
The older woman paused, looking over the rims of her reading glasses.
“Make sure that bottle is completely empty, Marianne,” Diane warned. “If your stomach rejects it, we reset the timer and start from zero.”
Marianne swallowed hard, willing the nausea to pass. The synthetic aftertaste burned the back of her throat. She wiped a stray drop of the orange syrup from her chin.
“It’s all gone,” Marianne said. “When can I get some ice chips to wash this taste out?”
Diane shook her head, sliding the bottle into a nearby trash bin. “Nothing crosses your lips for sixty minutes. Grab a seat out there, and I’ll shout when it’s time to draw your labs.”
Marianne stepped away from the reception window.
She turned to face the sprawling, congested waiting area.
The overhead lights flickered, casting a harsh glare across the rows of plastic chairs.
A toddler threw a wooden block across the peeling linoleum floor, sending the toy skidding into the baseboards.
Across the aisle, an elderly man hacked a wet cough into a crumpled tissue, leaning his weight onto his knees.
The noise in the clinic echoed off the low ceiling. It doesn’t matter.
She walked down the narrow center aisle. She skirted a discarded picture book on the floor. Her swollen ankles throbbed against the tight leather of her boots. Her lower spine ached from the strain, a relentless reminder of her sixth month of pregnancy.
She found a single vacant seat near the back corner. She lowered herself into the seat. The hard edge dug into her lower back, offering zero support. Instead of shifting around to seek out a more forgiving angle, she leaned her weight against it. She reached for the edges of her winter coat.
She pulled her coat tight across her pregnant belly.
She gripped the edges in both fists, crossing her arms over her chest to block out the chill of the room.
Tristan’s private doctors operated out of plush velvet waiting rooms overlooking the city skyline.
They offered sparkling water in crystal glasses and handed out heated towels on silver trays.
They also acted as paid informants. Every single blood pressure spike and weight fluctuation went straight to Eleanor Hawthorne’s cell phone.
A velvet sofa always came with a titanium leash.
Give me peeling linoleum and rigid plastic chairs any day.
Anonymity provided the best armor. Nobody in this room recognized her face or cared about her pedigree.
More importantly, nobody in this building had the Hawthorne Holdings executive suite on speed dial.
She settled into the chair, ignoring the sickening citrus film lingering on her teeth. She watched the chaotic shuffle of locals navigating the clinic floor. Enduring this crowded, germ-filled room was the first real victory she secured for her baby.
The automatic sliding glass doors parted. A bitter gust of December wind swept into the waiting room, cutting through the stagnant heat. Marianne pulled the coat tighter across her bump, glancing toward the entrance.
Tristan stepped across the threshold.
Marianne gripped the edge of her seat. His wool overcoat and dress shirt were a wrinkled, damp mess.
He looked entirely worn out, his skin pale beneath the dark stubble on his jaw.
He walked right past the reception window, ignoring Nurse Diane.
He scanned the rows of coughing patients and crying toddlers.
His eyes found her face across the congested aisle.
He didn’t pull out a phone to summon a private concierge. He didn’t approach the desk to demand a VIP suite. Threading his way through the cramped walkway, he stepped aside for a frantic mother carrying an infant before reaching the empty chair.
He lowered himself into the narrow seat. He brushed against her arm. An acrid scent of day-old espresso and stale sweat clung to the damp wool of his overcoat. He extended a plastic water bottle toward her. He pressed the icy, condensation-slicked surface against her wrist.
The sudden, biting cold shocked her. Marianne pressed her back against the chair, desperate to put as much space between them as possible.
“What happened to your hands?” she asked.
His knuckles were raw, the skin scraped and torn. Tristan ignored the question. He kept his grip on the bottle, pressing it to her pulse.
“I crossed the street to the hospital cafeteria to get this,” Tristan said, keeping his voice subdued beneath the chaotic noise of the clinic. “The front desk said you’re barred from drinking water, but pressing the frozen plastic against your wrist should keep the nausea down.”
She studied the torn skin on his fingers. He looks like he slept in a back-alley dumpster. This wasn’t the arrogant billionaire who commanded boardrooms and demanded immediate compliance. Watching him fold his massive shoulders into the narrow seat threw her off balance.
He just sat there, icing her wrist like a normal, fiercely devoted partner.
No. Marianne bit the inside of her cheek. One pathetic bottle of frozen water did not wipe the slate clean. It didn’t erase six months of watching him prioritize Eleanor’s venom and Winston’s bank accounts over her survival.
“You shouldn’t be here, Tristan,” Marianne said. “I have an hour to wait before they even draw my blood, and you’re taking up a seat in a packed room.”
“I don’t care how long it takes,” Tristan said. He didn’t break eye contact. “I’m sitting right here until they discharge you, just to make sure you’re safe.”
She stared at the icy water hitting her wrist, realizing he actually intended to endure the gritty clinic for the next three hours.
As he held the ice to her pulse, condensation gathered near the cap, dripping a slow, freezing bead of water down her skin. The chair was built for a child, forcing him to angle away just to avoid touching her.
He shifted his weight on the chair. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, pushing his shoes past the yellow warning tape on the floor.
“Your legs are in the aisle,” Marianne warned him, nodding toward the floor tape.
He didn’t pull them back, keeping his focus on the bottle pressed to her pulse. “My knees are cramping. I’ll move if someone needs to get by.”
The reception window jerked open with a grating screech as Nurse Diane leaned over the counter. She jabbed a finger directly at Tristan’s outstretched legs.
“Hey!” Diane shouted, her shrill pitch easily cutting through the low murmur of the waiting room. “You can’t blockade the fire lane with your legs, pal! Tuck them in or go wait out on the curb.”
The Tristan Hawthorne from six months ago would have bought this entire medical network before noon just to have that nurse removed.
He would have stood up, straightened his lapels, and demanded to speak to the hospital administrator.
He would have dropped his last name just to get her fired on the spot.
Instead, Tristan flinched.
He dragged his shoes backward against the scuffed linoleum, pulling his feet tightly under the chair and hunching forward to take up as little space as possible. He ducked his head.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Tristan said, keeping his voice low. “I lost track of the floor tape, but they’re out of the way now.”
Refusing to back down, Diane kept her finger aimed at him. “Keep it that way. We have stretchers coming down this hall, and I don’t care how expensive your suit is.”
The glass partition slid shut.
Marianne studied the side of his face. He actually just apologized to a receptionist. Watching a man of his size make himself small to obey the clinic’s rules felt like stepping into an alternate dimension.
He swallowed his corporate pride without a single argument, bending to fit her working-class reality just to earn the right to occupy this chair.
It terrified her to watch him surrender.
She pressed her back firmly against the hard edge of the backrest, pulling her winter coat tighter over her bump to actively widen the gap between them.
She needed the boundary. She needed the discomfort of the cheap chair to remind her exactly why she was sitting in this drafty room.
Playing the dutiful, humbled partner for a single morning did not undo the hell he had put her through over the last six months.
Setting the water bottle down near his feet, Tristan pulled his smartphone from his coat pocket and placed it on the armrest dividing their seats. A second later, the phone vibrated against the narrow barrier.
The vibration was relentless, rattling a steady, aggressive rhythm against the armrest.
Marianne dropped her gaze. The device skidded across the armrest, inching closer to the edge with every incoming notification.
“It’s going to vibrate right off the edge,” she murmured, watching the phone creep toward the drop.
Tristan did not reach for it, leaving his hands resting on his knees.
The screen illuminated. The white glare cut through the stale haze of the clinic waiting room. Winston Hawthorne’s name flashed across the notification.
A rapid cascade of text message previews filled the screen immediately after.
“Pick up the phone,” the screen read. “The board is convening an emergency session.”
“You are not ignoring me! Get back to the city right now!”
Marianne watched the rolling text. Winston was summoning him for a boardroom bloodbath. Millions of dollars were hemorrhaging from the holding company, and Tristan Hawthorne never ignored the executive floor.
Pressing her shoulder blades flat against the back of her chair, she braced for the inevitable pivot. He was going to let out that burdened sigh, shake his head, and stride out into the corridor to salvage his precious empire.
Just leave.
She needed him to abandon her right now. She needed him to pick up the phone, walk out the doors, and prove her right. If he chose the holding company over her survival one more time, it would crush the terrifying, stubborn shred of hope she was trying to suppress.
“Winston is going to keep flooding the screen until you pick up,” she said, her eyes on his motionless hands.
Tristan watched the glowing screen. He did not move a single finger.
Another congested cough erupted from the elderly patient across the aisle. The phone continued to judder against the armrest, buzzing like an angry wasp.
“That’s the executive floor,” Marianne said. “You need to take that. You made it clear that merger logistics don’t stop for domestic errands.”
He finally looked away from the screen, turning his head to face her directly.
“I used to believe that,” Tristan said. “I was arrogant enough to prioritize a hostile takeover over the only real thing I had.”
Marianne tightened her grip on her winter coat. He was saying the right words, but a single sentence spoken in a clinic waiting room did not outweigh a multi-billion-dollar empire. The phone kept flashing, a constant, digital tether tying him back to his father’s wrath.
“Your father isn’t going to stop dialing, Tristan,” Marianne said. “You can’t just freeze out a multi-billion-dollar panic.”
Tristan stood up, reached across the armrest, and grabbed the vibrating phone.
Expecting him to pivot toward the doors, she waited for him to step out onto the freezing pavement and negotiate the financial disaster in private.
He didn’t walk toward the exit. He marched down the aisle, heading toward the far corner of the waiting room. He stopped in front of a trash can. He held the expensive phone over the open bin.
He let go.
The phone hit the bottom of the bin with a hollow clatter.
The jarring vibration against the armrest died instantly. The sudden quiet left a ringing stillness in the space between the rows of chairs.
Marianne caught her breath. He didn’t just swipe the screen to dismiss the alert. He severed his only direct link to the executive suite. The recklessness of the move left her entirely stunned.
No. Don’t buy into the theater.
A man with his kind of money could replace a phone in ten minutes. Tossing a phone into a garbage can was just a dramatic, expensive stunt. It didn’t salvage a demolished marriage or prove he understood the actual cost of his choices.
Tristan turned and walked back down the aisle, his shoes scuffing against the peeling floor. He slid back into the narrow seat beside her. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he stared directly at her.
“That was your secure line,” Marianne said, her eyes locked on the empty gap on the armrest. “The executive floor and your father are going to spiral.”
“Let them spiral,” Tristan said. “I have zero interest in Genevieve or the board today. They can liquidate the firm for all I care.”
She searched his expression for the twitch of panic or the arrogant dismissal that always accompanied his corporate logic. He didn’t even flinch.
“You can’t manage a global portfolio if you throw your phone into a trash can,” she challenged.
“I have no intention of managing a portfolio today, Marianne,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I am sitting right here with my wife until this clinic clears you.”
He didn’t check his pockets. He didn’t glance back at the trash bin in the corner. He just sat there, waiting for her next move.
“Suit yourself,” she said, leaning her weight back against the chair. “Settle in, because we have hours to wait.”
She kept her gaze on the biohazard bin, holding onto her icy silence even as she admitted he had just changed the rules of the game.