Nicolas's office smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. I sat in the chair across from his desk while he read my chart. The blinds were half-closed. Outside, the hospital parking lot was full of cars that looked like they cost more than my childhood home.

He set the folder down. His jaw was tight. "Cleo, this is late-stage. You understand what that means?"

I nodded.

"The oncology team can start chemo next week. Dr. Patel is one of the best in the country. She's aggressive. She'll fight for you." He leaned forward. His hands were flat on the desk. "But you have to start immediately. Every day we wait—"

"I'm not doing chemo," I said.

He stopped. Stared at me. "What?"

"I can't."

"Cleo." His voice dropped. "If you don't treat this, you have maybe six months. Maybe less."

"I know."

He stood up. Walked to the window. His shoulders were stiff. When he turned back, his face looked like he'd aged ten years. "Is this about money? Because I can—"

"It's not about money."

"Then what? What could possibly be worth—" He stopped. His eyes went to the folder. To the notes clipped inside. "The pregnancy."

I didn't say anything.

"You're choosing the baby over treatment."

"Yes."

He sat down hard in his chair. Rubbed his face with both hands. "Cleo, listen to me. Chemo doesn't always terminate a pregnancy. There are protocols. We can try—"

"The baby is twelve weeks. You said it yourself. The drugs would cross the placenta. The risk is too high."

"The risk of dying is higher."

"I'm dying anyway, Nicolas." My voice came out flat. Calm. Like I was reading a grocery list. "The scans showed metastasis. You saw them. Even with chemo, it's a coin flip. Maybe I get another year. Maybe I don't. But if I start treatment now, I lose the baby for sure. And I can't do that."

He looked at me like I was a stranger. "Why? He threw you out. He called you a liar in front of cameras. He doesn't even believe it's his."

"It doesn't matter what he believes."

"It should."

I pressed my hand against my stomach. There was a small curve now. Barely visible under my sweater. "This is the only thing I have that's mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine. I'm keeping it."

Nicolas closed his eyes. His voice came out rough. "You're asking me to watch you die."

"I'm asking you to help me stay alive long enough to deliver."

He didn't answer for a long time. Outside, an ambulance siren wailed past. The sound faded into traffic noise.

Finally, he opened his eyes. "Off the books," he said. "I'll manage your pain. Monitor your levels. Keep you stable as long as I can. But Cleo, if you start hemorrhaging, if the tumor obstructs—"

"I know the risks."

"Do you?" He leaned forward. His voice was hard now. Angry. "Do you know what it's going to feel like when your body starts shutting down? When you can't eat because your stomach is full of cancer? When the pain gets so bad you can't think?"

"Yes," I said. "I know."

He looked at me. Really looked. Then he nodded once. "Okay."

I stood. My legs felt weak. I steadied myself on the edge of his desk.

"Cleo." His voice stopped me at the door. "He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve you protecting him."

"I'm not protecting him," I said. "I'm protecting the baby."

I left before he could say anything else.

---

Two weeks later, my phone rang while I was buying groceries. I didn't recognize the number. I almost didn't answer.

"Ms. Morgan?" A woman's voice. Professional. Clipped. "This is Andrea Holt. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Alvarez's legal team. We'd like to schedule a meeting to discuss terms of a non-disclosure agreement."

I stood in the middle of the cereal aisle holding a box of generic cornflakes. "I don't want his money."

"Mr. Alvarez is prepared to offer a substantial settlement in exchange for your agreement to cease all contact and retract any public claims regarding—"

I hung up.

She called back three more times that week. I blocked the number.

The nausea got worse. I couldn't keep food down. Nicolas prescribed anti-nausea medication, but it only helped a little. I lost weight everywhere except my stomach. People on the subway stared.

I stopped going out unless I had to.

One night, I woke up to my phone vibrating. A text from a number I didn't know. I opened it.

It was a photo. Judah and Sloane at some charity gala. She wore a dress covered in gold sequins. He had his arm around her waist. They looked perfect. Below the photo, a message: *Stay away from what doesn't belong to you.*

I deleted it. Turned off my phone. Lay back down in the dark.

The baby kicked for the first time that night. A tiny flutter, like a bird trapped under my ribs.

I put my hand over the spot and cried until I couldn't breathe.

I saw Sloane before she saw me.

I was leaving Nicolas's office, walking slow because my legs felt like water. The corridor was empty. White walls. Fluorescent lights that buzzed. My hand stayed pressed against my stomach. The baby had been kicking all morning. Little flutters that felt like hope, even though I knew better.

Sloane stepped out from around the corner. She wore a cream-colored coat and heels that clicked on the tile. Her hair was perfect. Her lipstick was perfect. She looked like she'd never been sick a day in her life.

She stopped when she saw me. Her eyes went to my stomach. I wasn't showing much, but enough. Enough that she knew.

"Cleo." Her voice was soft. Sweet. Like we were old friends. "I thought that was you."

I didn't say anything. I tried to step around her. She moved with me, blocking the hall.

"We should talk," she said.

"I don't have anything to say to you."

"I think you do." She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "You're still trying, aren't you? Still thinking you can convince him. That's sad, Cleo. Really."

I felt the anger rise in my chest. Hot and sharp. "Get out of my way."

"You need to let this go." Her voice dropped lower. "Whatever fantasy you're living in, it's over. Judah is mine. He's always been mine. You were just... convenient."

"I'm going to tell him the truth," I said. "About the baby. About everything. He can believe me or not. But I'm done hiding."

Her face changed. The sweetness disappeared. Her eyes went cold. "You really think he'll choose you? A dying woman with nothing? Over me?"

"I don't care if he chooses me." My voice shook. "I just want him to know his child exists."

Sloane stared at me. Then she laughed. It was a brittle sound. "You're pathetic."

She turned and walked toward the stairwell. I watched her go. My heart was pounding. I needed to sit down. I needed water. I needed—

Sloane stopped at the top of the stairs. She looked back at me. Her hand rested on the railing. The security camera was mounted in the corner above us. The little red light blinked.

"You know what, Cleo?" Her voice was loud now. Shrill. "I'm tired of you. I'm tired of your lies. I'm tired of you trying to ruin my life."

"What are you—"

She screamed my name. Then she threw herself backward.

I saw her body twist. Saw her arms go out. Saw her tumble down the concrete steps like a doll someone threw away. The sound was terrible. Wet. Heavy. Her scream cut off halfway down.

Then silence.

I stood frozen. My brain couldn't process what I'd just seen. My hand was still on my stomach. My mouth was open.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. A nurse ran past me. Then another. Someone yelled for a doctor. I heard Nicolas's voice, sharp and commanding.

I walked to the top of the stairs. Looked down.

Sloane was at the bottom, crumpled against the wall. Blood pooled under her head. Her cream coat was torn. One of her heels had come off. Her eyes were open. She was staring right at me.

"She pushed me," Sloane whispered. Her voice was weak. Broken. "Cleo pushed me."

Nicolas was kneeling beside her. His hands moved fast, checking her pulse, her head. He looked up at me. His face was white.

"I didn't," I said. "I didn't touch her."

More people came. Security guards. Another doctor. Someone wrapped a blanket around Sloane. Someone else was talking into a radio. I heard the words "possible assault" and "police."

I backed away from the stairs. My legs were shaking. I couldn't breathe.

Nicolas stood. He walked up the steps toward me. His hands were covered in Sloane's blood. "Cleo, don't say anything. Not until—"

"I didn't push her," I said again. "She threw herself. You have to believe me."

"I know." His voice was low. Urgent. "But right now, you need to—"

"Where is she?"

The voice came from behind me. I turned.

Judah stood at the end of the corridor. His suit was wrinkled. His tie was loose. His face looked like carved stone.

He walked past me like I didn't exist. Went straight to the stairs. Looked down at Sloane being loaded onto a gurney.

"What happened?" His voice was flat. Dead.

One of the security guards stepped forward. "Sir, there was an altercation. Ms. Turner fell. She's claiming she was pushed."

Judah's eyes moved to me. They were empty. Hollow. Like looking into a grave.

"By her," the guard said.

Judah stared at me. I tried to speak. Tried to explain. But nothing came out.

He turned away.

"Take her downstairs," he said. "I want her held until the police arrive."

Two guards moved toward me. Nicolas stepped between us. "Judah, wait. You need to look at the—"

"I don't need to look at anything." Judah's voice was ice. "She tried to kill Sloane. She tried to kill my child."

"It's not your—" I started.

His hand came up. Not to hit me. Just to stop me from speaking. "I don't want to hear another word from you. Not ever again."

The guards took my arms. I didn't fight. There was no point.

As they pulled me away, I saw Judah kneel beside Sloane's gurney. Saw him take her hand. Saw her whisper something to him. Saw his face crumple.

I closed my eyes.

The baby kicked once. Then went still.