6. Cormac
Cormac
The procedure room is as immaculate as always.
Bright, but not too bright. The lighting, calibrated to a precise intensity.
The stainless steel surfaces, gleaming with surgical cleanliness.
The scent of antiseptic, sterile and sharp, fills the air, but it doesn’t bother me.
In this space, it’s not a matter of comfort; it’s a matter of control.
I check the screen one last time. The embryo is in position, ready to be implanted. It’s a simple, mechanical procedure, one that I’ve performed hundreds of times. But today, as I glance down at the small image on the monitor, the significance of it strikes me harder than it should.
It’s my embryo… my child who will grow inside her.
The thought does not disturb me. It should, of course.
The personal should always disrupt the professional.
But not for me. Not here. Not now. I’ve worked hard to keep my emotions separate from my work.
The fact that this is my biological child doesn’t change the procedure.
It doesn’t change the process. I’m still the doctor, and she’s still the patient.
Still, I can’t help but notice the tightness in my chest as I look at the image on the screen. My success in the clinic, in my professional life, has been built on authority. Control of situations, of people, of my emotions.
But I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect the weight of it. The moment when the child— my child—enters the world through her body. The act is so clinical, so precise. Yet, it feels like something more now. It feels like something irrevocable.
I’m sure it’s irrational, but I can’t help thinking that my life, my carefully ordered life, has been one of calculation.
It’s always been about what I could control, what I could shape.
It was a decision to never allow anything to be born from chaos.
Yet now, a life—my blood, my future—will be brought into being without my direct influence, without my permission.
And perhaps, deep down, that’s why I chose this path.
Not out of necessity, but because I’ve realized how little control I actually have in the larger scheme of things.
I push the thought away. There’s no room for it now.
Elena lies on the table, sedated but still aware enough to be tense.
She’s nervous, of course, but she hides it well.
Even under the soft haze of sedation, she still holds herself with that quiet, guarded composure.
Her breathing is steady, though there’s a slight tremor in her fingers when I glance at her hand resting beside her head.
The thought of the child she will carry, and the relationship that will inevitably change between us, lingers in my mind as I prepare the catheter.
Dr. Walsh stands to my left, her movements as practiced as mine, eyes already fixed on the instruments in front of her. I nod to her, signaling that we’re ready. She doesn’t respond; she doesn’t need to.
Everything is in its place. Everything is as it should be.
I take a steadying breath and move to the catheter. The path to the embryo is clear. I guide the catheter into position, carefully monitoring the image on the screen. The slight resistance I feel as it moves forward is nothing more than the natural rhythm of the body. It’s familiar. Routine.
Still, I find my pulse quickening. This is my child. The thought reverberates again, louder now, but I push it down. There is no room for sentiment in this.
I administer the embryo. It’s a precise, calculated move. The embryo enters its new environment, and the procedure is done.
Elena’s breathing changes. Her eyelids flutter, her fingers twitching. The sedative isn’t enough to completely dull her senses, and I can feel her awareness returning, pulling her from the haze.
I step back, allowing her space, letting the moment settle before I address her. “Done,” I tell her.
Her eyes snap open, glazed with the remnants of sedation. She stirs against the table, pushing herself up slowly, her hand brushing against the sterile paper.
“Is it done already?” Her voice is hoarse, raw, with a quiet tremor to it that’s almost unnoticeable.
“Yes.” It’s all I say. Nothing more is necessary.
She blinks, then nods, her expression changing.
It’s a subtle shift, a quiet recognition, and I can see her mind working, moving past the immediate discomfort of the procedure.
The sedative is still clouding her senses, but the clarity is starting to return.
She looks up at me with that same guarded expression she always has.
“Now we wait,” I say. It’s an understatement, but it’s all I need to say. Two weeks. Confirmation of the pregnancy. A test of her body’s response. But for now, there’s nothing to do but wait.
I take a moment to watch her, and I can feel the weight of the moment between us. It’s not just about the procedure anymore; it’s about what comes after. The two weeks of waiting. The two weeks of monitoring. The shared future that neither of us is prepared for.
In truth, I never intended to have a child this way. It wasn’t part of my plan. I never expected to go down this path. One marked by such personal entanglement, by something I couldn’t control entirely.
Yet the thought of a legacy, a continuation of what I’ve built, has lingered in my mind for months. Perhaps longer. I always saw my legacy as something to be cultivated in my work, not in something as uncontrollable as a child.
But Elena’s presence, her decisiveness, has made me reconsider. She is calculated, steady. She does not waver, and I find myself looking at her and wondering if I’ve been wrong about the choices I’ve made in my life.
Perhaps this child is the next phase. Perhaps, for once, I will allow myself to build something that isn’t governed by rules and systems.
I don’t expect this child to be like Liam. My son is the result of a past I’ve kept distant. I’ve always provided for him. His mother never made it easy, always playing the game of manipulation, of extraction.
Liam, for his part, has always kept me at arm’s length.
He only comes to me when he needs something.
Money, a favor, a call. I’ve never been more than a bank account to him.
And despite the years of providing for him, we’ve never had a relationship based on anything other than what I could do for him.
I never expected it to be any different.
But this child, with Elena, feels different.
It’s not just a matter of blood; it’s a matter of intention.
Elena, despite everything, is steady. She does not expect anything from me that I cannot provide, and she does not come to me because she needs something.
I don’t know yet what will happen between us.
But there’s something in this. Something beyond compliance, beyond the rigid structures I’ve built around my life.
It is a chance for something else. A chance to create a different legacy, one that I can control without the distortions of chaos. And this child feels like a step into that future.
Elena stirs again, her movements slow as the sedation wears off. Her eyes focus on me.
“Two weeks,” I remind her. “Rest and daily monitoring. No exertion.”
She’s still groggy, still coming out of the sedation, but she catches my meaning immediately. The control. The arrangement. I’ve arranged for meals to be delivered to her apartment during this time. She needs to stay off her feet, needs to rest. That’s nonnegotiable.
Her gaze sharpens, just slightly. She’s aware enough now to notice the slight condescension in my tone, the quiet authority.
“I didn’t agree to meal delivery,” she says, her voice a little stronger than before. The tension in her voice is quiet but unmistakable. It’s the first real sign of resistance, the first crack in the calm that I’ve maintained between us.
I do not ask her permission. I do not offer her an option.
“It’s included in the program services,” I say, my tone factual. No room for negotiation.
Her expression changes, just enough for me to catch it. There it is—recognition. She knows what’s happening now. She understands that this isn’t about cooperation, but compliance. The program operates on its own terms, and she has no choice but to accept them.
I see the shift in her eyes, the flicker of understanding. She does not resist. Not now. Not yet. But the moment is there, quiet and contained. The compliance I expect, the submission I anticipate, but nothing overt. She doesn’t argue, though she could.
The silence that follows is thick, heavy. Neither of us speaks. It’s not necessary.
I step back, keeping my gaze on her for a beat longer than is strictly required. “I’ve arranged for everything,” I say. “Meals will be delivered daily. You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.”
She nods, a sharp, quick movement that indicates she’s understood. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t question. She just nods and closes her eyes again, surrendering to the inevitable.
The moment lingers longer than it should, but I move away from her. There’s no need for further words.
Dr. Walsh finishes her final checks, confirming the procedure was successful, and I allow myself a breath. The procedure is done, and now we wait. But even in the waiting, there’s nothing left to do but monitor, to manage, to control.
I glance over at Elena. She’s still resting, her eyes closed, her body relaxed, but the subtle tension remains in the set of her shoulders, the slight furrow in her brow as she drifts in and out of consciousness.
I can’t let myself linger on that. Not yet. I turn away, stepping toward the door. There’s nothing left here. The decision has been made. We proceed according to plan.
This is how it works. How it always works.