"Lauren? Thank God you finally picked up! I've been worried sick," came the urgent voice on the other end. "Our plan was for you to meet me at the safe house two days ago. What happened?"
"I'll call you back," I whispered urgently into the phone. "I just need a little more time. Three days at most."
As the hospital room door closed behind Alexander, I quickly slipped the phone under my pillow, my heart hammering against my weakened ribs.
"Who was that?" he demanded again, his voice calm as he approached my bed.
"My pharmacist," I lied smoothly. "About my heart medication."
He studied my face for a long moment before glancing at his watch.
"Victoria's having false contractions," he said dismissively. "She's asking for special ice cream from that place downtown."
Even in a medical emergency, her cravings took precedence over my recovery.
"I have meetings all afternoon," he continued coldly. "I'll check on you tomorrow."
Tomorrow came and went. Then another day passed. And another.
Alexander never returned to the hospital.
Instead, through our mutual friends' social media feeds, I watched his life unfold without me. Video clips of Alexander escorting Victoria to her prenatal yoga classes. Photos of them shopping for nursery furniture at exclusive boutiques.
The worst was the live stream of him at a charity gala, his hand possessively curved around Victoria's waist as he proudly announced to the crowd, "My child will be born in five months. The Pierce legacy continues!"
Not once did he mention that he already had a wife.
On my discharge day, after signing my own papers and refusing the wheelchair offered by a nurse, I checked my phone one last time before leaving.
Alexander had posted a professional photoshoot on his social media: Victoria in a flowing white gown, her baby bump prominently displayed, while he knelt before her, pressing his lips to her stomach. The caption read: "The beginning of my real family."
With trembling fingers, I typed a comment:
[Congratulations. May your child grow up knowing true love.]
Within minutes, my phone rang with Alexander's call. I silenced it and slipped the device into my pocket.
As I made my way through the corridors, I passed the fertility clinic where we had once discussed treatments—before Alexander decided the problem must be with me, not him, and refused further testing.