11. False Optics #2
I stepped away from her. The acrid scent of bile lingered in the small powder room, stinging the back of my throat. Naomi leaned heavily against the porcelain tank, still clutching her waist, refusing to look at me.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she muttered, staring at the tile. “I ruined the shoot.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, pitching my voice to sound soothing. “Marcus can edit around a five-minute break.”
I crouched down and opened the vanity cabinet.
The hinges squeaked in the enclosed space.
I reached inside the shadowed shelf toward the stack of folded white washcloths, but stopped abruptly, my hand hovering an inch away from the terrycloth.
Tucked beside the towels sat a familiar rectangular cardboard box.
I had left it buried under the sink months ago, a leftover from the anxious weeks before my own positive result.
I froze. I stared at the logo printed on the side of the box. Pregnancy tests.
Her physical reaction to the catering tray was too identical to ignore. The sickly pallor of her skin looked exactly like my own early morning sickness. A cold spike of adrenaline hit my chest. She was sterile, enduring years of grueling, heartbreaking IVF cycles. But miracles happened.
Naomi drew in a shaky breath behind me. “The clinic warned me the residual hormones from the last round would mess with my system,” she whispered, her voice raw. “But this is ridiculous. My cycle is a few days late, and I feel like I’m dying.”
Her words confirmed my worst fear. If Naomi was carrying a child, everything changed. They only needed me alive to deliver a baby she could steal. If she had her own, they didn’t need mine anymore, and they could kill me tonight.
I grabbed the cardboard box and pulled it into the light. I popped the side flap open and took out a single foil-wrapped plastic stick. The metallic wrapper crinkled in the quiet room.
I stood to face her. Naomi remained slumped against the toilet seat. I held the silver packet out.
“Naomi… take this,” I said, keeping my tone level. “I had extras under the sink.”
She shrank back, staring at the foil in my hand before squeezing her eyes shut and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Juniper, you know my history,” she said, shaking her head in defeat. “That’s impossible. I can’t be.”
I stepped closer. I pushed the packet forward, forcing the edge of the stiff foil against her clammy knuckles until she had no choice but to take it. I needed to know if the clock had run out.
“I know, but your doctors have had you on intense hormone cycles for years,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Just take the test to rule it out.”
I stepped backward out of the powder room, pulling the door shut. The latch clicked into place, leaving Naomi inside. I stood in the empty hallway, staring at the painted wood paneling.
“Three minutes,” I whispered to the closed door.
I backed away until my spine hit the wall. I pressed my shoulders flat against the plaster, letting it hold my weight as my knees went weak. Every second dragged past.
Down the corridor, faint noise drifted from the kitchen. Julian chatted with Marcus as they rearranged the catering tray. They had no idea my entire world was collapsing just feet away.
I checked my phone screen. The digital timer counted down the final ten seconds. I shoved it back into my pocket, pushed off the plaster wall, and stepped up to the door.
I rapped my knuckles against the wood. She didn’t answer. The silence from the other side of the door was absolute. I grabbed the knob and twisted, nudging the door inward.
“Naomi?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Did it finish processing?”
Naomi sat on the closed toilet lid. She had pulled herself together, tucking her silk blouse back into her slacks. She held the plastic test stick in both hands, her knuckles pale from the force of her grip. She stared down at the small plastic window.
She didn’t look up as I approached. I stepped forward, looking down at the test in her hands.
Pink dye bled across the indicator strip. Two stark, undeniable lines marked the plastic. Positive.
I stared at the pink lines. Naomi Mercer, the woman who had spent years weeping over her infertility diagnosis on camera, was carrying a child. I swallowed hard, refusing to let my face change.
Naomi looked up at me. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, ruining her mascara.
“Oh my god,” Naomi choked out. “Juniper… oh my god, it’s positive. I’m pregnant.”
She dissolved into tears, covering her mouth with one hand while the other clutched the plastic stick. I stared down at her, my jaw locked, waiting for the first lie.
“The clinic told me the last donor cycle failed,” Naomi sobbed, looking back down at the two pink lines. “But it must have worked!”
The lie was desperate and obvious. The baby belonged to my husband, but I barely registered the betrayal. Her miracle was my death sentence.
I knelt and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. I pulled her into a tight hug, pressing my cheek against her hair.
“A miracle,” I lied, staring at the blank wall behind her. “You’re finally going to be a mother, Naomi.”
She squeezed me back, sobbing into the collar of my blouse. Embracing my own executioner made my skin crawl.
“Take a deep breath,” I said, continuing to rub her back. “We’ll go back out there when you’re ready.”
Naomi nodded against my shoulder, trying to get her tears under control. I held her for another long minute. When her breathing finally leveled out, I pulled away.
I stood and helped her up. She started turning toward the sink to wash her face, but I reached straight for her waistband. My thumb found the microphone’s battery pack. I flicked the tiny toggle switch up.
A faint click signaled the transmitter powering back on. The live audio feed reconnected to the receiver upstairs.
Naomi had her own biological child now. They no longer needed to wait for mine to be born. Which meant my time had just run out.