35. Elena
Elena
The apartment carries traces of him now — his cologne, his presence, the shape of the air when he’s been in a room. It should feel clinical, sterile, detached. But it doesn’t.
The apartment has become a space measured in movements, in schedules, in monitoring. I used to resist it. I used to fight it. Now, sometimes, I just… exist within it.
The third trimester presses in on me. Every morning, my feet are swollen, my ankles impossible to see beneath layers of fluid and gravity.
My back aches from carrying a body that is no longer mine alone.
And the insomnia. The endless nights where my mind spins, replaying every word Cormac has ever said, every touch, every calculated gesture of control.
It doesn’t stop. Cormac is always there.
Not hovering, not intrusive, but present.
Constant. I can feel him in the rhythm of the apartment, in the subtle alignment of the furniture, in the way he has arranged the lights, the curtains, the temperature.
Everything designed for my comfort, for the baby’s safety, for the maintenance of order.
This morning, he checks my vitals before I’ve fully woken. Blood pressure, pulse, oxygen saturation, each one noted in a quiet log, his eyes scanning the readouts with precision.
“Hydration levels are suboptimal,” he says, low and measured, already moving to place a glass of water at my bedside. “You will drink this now. Then rest.”
I obey, not because I am afraid, but because I have learned that resistance achieves nothing.
Comfort comes in compliance. Efficiency, not argument.
I tilt the glass to my lips, feeling the water cool and heavy as it courses down.
He watches. His thumb rests lightly on the edge of the counter, invisible vigilance.
“You are uncomfortable,” he says, stating a fact.
“I am,” I admit, voice rough with sleep. Swollen ankles ache as I shift slightly, back tense.
“You will remain seated,” he instructs softly, lifting my feet onto a stool he has positioned perfectly beneath the sofa. “Elevation, circulation. Ice packs later. Heat on the back if necessary. Pain management protocol in place.”
I nod, letting him work. There is a strange comfort in the precision, in the knowledge that everything I cannot manage myself is already accounted for. Even my suffering is managed, measured, mitigated.
The baby stirs, pressing sharply against my ribs. I hiss quietly, adjusting to the sudden movement. Cormac’s hand is on my stomach before I’ve fully reacted, a firm, steadying presence. He applies slight pressure, tracing the curve of my belly with careful attention.
“Position adjusted,” he murmurs. “Our monitoring remains consistent. Activity noted. No distress.”
I press my hands over his, feeling the subtle press of our child against us both. Even here, in the middle of discomfort, in the unrelenting weight of expectation and reality, there is grounding. I cannot deny that.
We move through the day with a rhythm I have long since internalized.
Morning check-ins, medical administration, light stretching, nutrition, hydration.
Every step measured, every detail logged.
He guides me through breathing exercises, through positions to relieve back strain.
When the swelling in my feet grows too extreme, he positions pillows and elevates my feet, massaging gently with precise pressure.
Every gesture intentional. Every gesture protective. Every gesture his.
The hospital bag is packed without fanfare.
I watch him place each item in order: clothing, postpartum necessities, baby clothing, blankets, documents, contacts, instructions.
Nothing missing. He reviews the birth plan with me, every contingency accounted for: who will be present, who will be contacted, how the process will proceed, how I am to be monitored, what interventions may be required, and what steps will follow immediately after birth.
He’s prepared for every eventuality. Except one: I am not entirely ready. For the permanence of what comes after.
I ask quietly, almost hesitantly, “And after… you’re assuming I will leave, right? Once the baby is born. Contract fulfilled. Payment received. Back to my life?”
He pauses, watching me, his gaze steady. “Aren’t you?”
I blink, surprised by the calm certainty in his tone. I should argue. I should protest. But the truth—painful, infuriating, undeniable—rises to meet me. I am not leaving. Not yet. Not with him here, not with this life, not with our child.
“I can’t just stay,” I murmur, but my voice falters.
“You are,” he says simply. No question. No debate. Just fact. “You know it. You cannot leave.”
I stare at him, heart hammering. “You can’t just keep me.”
“I am not keeping you,” he says calmly. His hands move to my shoulders, steadying, grounding, asserting presence. “You are choosing to stay. Because leaving means leaving the baby. Leaving me. Leaving the life we are building.”
I hate that it is true. I hate the undeniable tether holding me here. The cage I have resisted, argued against, mentally cataloged as constraint—it is real. And yet, I feel a perverse relief in its boundaries. Safety in its parameters. Control in its inevitability.
“You’ve built a cage,” I whisper.
“A cage you are comfortable in,” he replies.
I close my eyes, hating that I close them, hating the surrender in the small exhale that escapes me. “Yes,” I admit finally.
“Our baby. Our life. You’re staying,” he says flatly. Not a question. No space for debate. The weight of his certainty fills the apartment. My heart hammers. My chest tightens.
I rest my own hands over where he’s placed them on my stomach, over the curve that holds both our child and our future, and let the truth settle. He is right. I am staying. I accept it completely.
* * *
The days pass in a rhythm of measured discomfort and attentiveness.
My back aches as the baby shifts, kicks, stretches.
Feet swollen, sometimes impossible to see beneath layers of weight.
Nights are the hardest. Insomnia stretches long into the hours, my mind spinning with anticipation, fear, and the strange, tight coil of acceptance.
Cormac is always present. Not intrusive, not suffocating.
Attentive. Monitoring vital signs, adjusting support, preparing medical protocols, reviewing the pediatrician selection.
Every detail of my care, every contingency mapped, every risk accounted for.
Even the smallest movements, the tiniest kicks, the faintest sighs of discomfort. All noted, cataloged, understood.
“You need to rest,” he says at one point, his hand sliding down my arm to rest on the curve of my belly again. His thumb traces a gentle arc, mapping the baby’s position. “Sleep is not optional. Sleep is preservation. Preservation is safety.”
“I cannot,” I whisper, voice raw with frustration, body rigid with the weight pressing down from inside.
“Then you will recline,” he corrects gently. Firmly. “Feet elevated. Back supported. Ice packs. Pillows aligned.”
And I do. Because resistance accomplishes nothing.
The third trimester presses on. Discomfort grows, weight increases, nights are long and restless. But beneath it, there are the rhythms in the cage I have learned to inhabit without resistance.
Cormac is here. The baby is safe. I am safe. The arrangement holds. And I stay. Because I cannot leave. Because I do not want to.
Because this is our life.