Chapter 17
568words
I watched Olivia's face as she processed this information. Her medical training allowed her to understand the clinical details, but I saw the moment the personal implications hit her. Her face went completely blank—the defense mechanism I'd seen her use in our worst arguments.
"I see," she said flatly. "So I can't have children."
"I'm very sorry," Dr. Winters said gently. "If you'd like to discuss other fertility options or adoption possibilities in the future—"
"That won't be necessary," Olivia cut her off. "Is there anything else I should know about my condition?"
Dr. Winters explained the recovery process, medication schedule, and follow-up appointments. Throughout the explanation, Olivia remained detached, nodding occasionally, asking precise medical questions. Only I could see the devastation behind her eyes.
When we were alone again, she turned to me. "You should go."
"I'm not leaving you," I said firmly.
"Why? Because you feel guilty?" Her voice was ice. "Or because you're afraid I'll die and it'll be on your conscience, like our baby was?"
The accusation stung, but I deserved it. "I'm staying because someone is trying to hurt you, and I won't let them succeed."
"Someone already has," she said bitterly. "Several someones, in fact. You. Rebecca. Your father. The doctor who botched my D&C. Take your pick."
I wanted to defend myself, to explain everything I'd begun to suspect about that night eight months ago. But looking at her—pale, wounded, having just received devastating news—I knew this wasn't the moment for my explanations or theories.
Instead, I simply said, "I'm sorry, Olivia. More than you can ever know."
She turned away, staring out the window. "Just tell me one thing," she said after a long silence. "Is Rebecca telling the truth? Are you the father of her baby?"
Nathan's POV
"Is Rebecca telling the truth? Are you the father of her baby?"
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with eight months of pain and misunderstanding. I met Olivia's gaze directly, knowing this might be my only chance to begin rebuilding her trust.
"I honestly don't know," I said, the words heavy with the weight of my uncertainty. "The night you miscarried, I was drugged. I woke up in Rebecca's apartment with no memory of how I got there. She told me nothing happened, that she'd found me disoriented in the lobby and helped me upstairs."
Olivia's eyes widened slightly. "You were drugged?"
I nodded, relieved that she was at least willing to listen. "I was at the office late, working on the Richardson deal. Someone brought me coffee—I assumed it was the cleaning staff. Next thing I remember clearly is waking up on Rebecca's couch the next morning, my phone dead, and realizing I'd missed your calls."
I ran a hand through my hair, the memory of that morning's panic still vivid. "I tried to tell you, but you were so hurt, so angry. And I couldn't blame you. I failed you when you needed me most."
"And now Rebecca claims you're the father of her child." Olivia's voice was hollow. "Convenient timing."
"I don't believe her," I said firmly. "And I don't think you should either. Not until we get a paternity test."
