“So, you’re saying my body is too fucked up to do what it’s supposed to do naturally, but if I pump myself full of hormones and let doctors harvest my eggs like I’m some kind of science experiment,thenmaybe—maybe—I’ll get lucky?”
I scoffed.
I wish all doctors would stop sugarcoating shit by trying to sell people dreams instead of delivering facts. These same doctors know there are actual cures for cancer, real solutions that can eliminate it—whether it’s what person eats, how they live, or treatments that actually work—but they won’t say it directlybecause there’s no money in honesty or in admitting what could actually be fixed; there’s only money in false hope, expensive hope, hope that keeps patients coming back for procedures and consultations and specialists who all need their cut. This whole world operates on money. Every system is built on the same lie: words, procedures, and timelines all carefully constructed to sound important enough, necessary enough,and possible enough to keep extracting money from desperate people with no other options.
Dr. Fairchild’s mouth tightened slightly. “I understand this is difficult—”
“It’s cool,” I interrupted. “I understand... somewhat. Besides, I don’t have enough time for all of that.”
He blinked, confused. “Time? Miss Guidry, you’re thirty years old. You still have—”
“I don’t,” I corrected politely, grabbing my purse. “Trust me. Thank you for everything. Have a good day.”
With a heavy heart, I turned on my heel and walked out before my composure could shatter completely.
Dr. Fairchild didn’t know about the one-year deadline that Merge had left to produce an heir before everything he’d worked for got handed to someone else. IVF tookyearssometimes… multiple cycles, each one a roller coaster of hope and devastating failure, repeatedly untilmaybea miracle happened.
I didn’t have years; I had a few months.
Once outside, the air felt overwhelmingly bright, and the noise of the bustling street seemed amplified.
The driver straightened up when he saw me.
“Ma’am, Mr. Belvior said he needed a… breather,” he informed me.
I stared down the empty stretch of street where Merge had vanished.
“Of course he did.”
I let out a long sigh and slid into the back seat, shutting the door harder than I meant to.
For a moment I just sat there, hands limp in my lap.
When Merge first told me about the arrangement, I thought I’d just been handed the keys to the life I’d prayed for. He said marriage like it was business… as though it meant nothing. Me, on the other hand? I was already picturing silk robes, designershoes, candlelit bathtubs, and credit cards with no limits. However, after hearing the news that had just come out of Dr. Fairchild’s mouth, that fantasy was bleeding out inside a manila folder on his desk, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting my thoughts unravel.
Five percent.
Highly unlikely.
Not guaranteed.
Polite doctor-speak for “you're fucked.”
Those words made my entire future collapse like glass.
My stomach twisted violently as I sat in that office. For a second I thought I might’ve thrown up right there on Dr. Fairchild’s pristine white carpet. My hands were shaking so badly I had to press them flat against my thighs to stop them. Then I begin digging my nails into the expensive fabric of my dress. I wanted to rip it off my body and scream until my throat bled… but I didn’t. I just sat there, nodding like I understood, like I wasn’t about to shatter into a thousand pieces the second I left his office.
I’d done everything to get there. I smiled when I wanted to scream, swallowed my pride until it tasted like rust, reinvented myself, changed my hair, my voice, hell, even my circle… all to be told my body had betrayed me.
A bitter laugh slipped out.
Maybe God is punishing me.
Unknown to Merge, Ididhave two abortions before he ever came into the picture. Those were choices I’d justified back when life was messy, money was short, and love was conditional. I told myself I’d make it right one day—when I had the house, the husband, the ring. Now, that day might never come.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, tears pricking my eyes but refusing to fall.
