Chapter 7
I knew which hospital I wanted.
I knew which books I wanted to read aloud.
When the doctor told us there was no heartbeat, Julian stared at the floor.
In the car afterward, he said, “We can’t let this consume us.”
I thought he was trying to protect me.
Maybe he was trying to protect himself.
The third pregnancy was different.
I barely allowed myself to be happy.
Every cramp terrified me.
Every trip to the bathroom became a negotiation with God.
At ten weeks, I started bleeding.
Julian had a flight to Davos that afternoon.
I remember the white towel.
That detail had no reason to matter, but memory is cruel that way.
A white towel on the bathroom floor.
My blood spreading across it.
My hands shaking so hard I couldn’t unlock my phone.
Julian stood in the doorway in a charcoal suit.
His suitcase was already downstairs.
“Call Dr. Kaplan,” he said.
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
“To come in.”
“Then go in.”
I stared at him.
“Come with me.”
His phone buzzed.
He looked down.
I can still hear it.
That tiny vibration.
That tiny sound becoming more important than me.
“Khloe, the car is waiting.”
I couldn’t understand the sentence.
I looked at the blood.
Then at him.
“I’m losing the baby.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you talking about the car?”
His face tightened.
Because I was becoming emotional.
That was the expression he used whenever emotion interfered with whatever outcome he wanted.
“I have a panel tomorrow morning.”
I laughed.
It came out broken.
“I don’t care.”
“You do care.”
“No.”
“You care about the company.”
“I care about our baby.”
“So do I.”
“Then stay.”
Silence.
I watched his eyes move toward the clock.
Something inside me cracked before the pregnancy was even officially over.
“Please,” I whispered.
Julian exhaled.
“Khloe, you need to stop letting this define everything.”
I stared at him.
He continued, softer now, as if softness made it kinder.
“We have a company to run. We have a life.”
“You disappear into this every time.”
Every time.
Three pregnancies.
Three children I had allowed myself to imagine.
Reduced to my bad habit.
I don’t remember what I said after that.
I remember the door closing.
I remember calling a car to the hospital alone.
I remember the doctor touching my arm when she gave me the news.