Chapter 2

The cab was just pulling away when Edward called. I let it ring three times before I picked up.

His voice was low. "What was that back there?"

The ER lobby roared around me. Children crying, old men coughing, a nurse rushing past with a cart.

I clutched the registration slip. "My father collapsed. I'm at the hospital."

Two seconds of silence on the line.

"He walked out of there, didn't he?" he asked.

Something pressed down hard on my chest. "Edward, does my father have to collapse in your office before you'll believe he's sick?"

"Emily." His tone went cold. "I have an important client this afternoon. I can't leave him waiting for your family's little problem. I'm not ignoring your dad's wages, either. We'll deal with it when I have time."

When he had time.

My father hadn't been home in three months. He drove mountain roads at night and slept in the cab on rainy days, all to scrape together that 80,000 dollars.

And in Edward's mouth, it was a little problem.

The nurse called our number. I hung up and helped my father in for his blood draw.

When the needle went in, he turned his face away. "Don't fight with Edward. He's a busy man."

I said nothing. My father had spent his whole life smoothing things over for other people, all so I'd never feel small.

The results came back as a lung infection with low blood sugar, and the doctor recommended admitting him for observation.

At the payment window, the moment my card was swiped, my phone buzzed with a bank alert.

[Insufficient funds.]

That card had held two years of my savings.

Last month, Edward said the pre-IVF tests involved too many scattered fees, so he'd moved the money to his account to handle it all in one place.

I called him. No answer.

Five minutes later, Chloe sent me a photo.

Edward sat at a window table in a restaurant, a strawberry cake in front of him. The caption was breezy.

[Thank you, Mr. Bennett, for spending my birthday with me. First time in my life someone remembered I don't eat mango.]

I knew that restaurant. On my first birthday after the wedding, Edward took me there.

He ordered me a mango crepe cake that day. I'm allergic to mango, and my lips swelled up all night.

He'd frowned at me. "Drama queen. You grew up poor enough to eat anything, and now you're picky."

Every birthday after that, I cooked myself a bowl of noodles.

And in that photo, he remembered someone else didn't eat a mango.

I stared at the payment slip and let out a small laugh.

The woman at the window pressed me. "Are you paying or not? There's a line."

I unclasped the necklace from my neck.

Edward gave it to me when he proposed, a thin chain with a tiny pendant. He'd said money was tight, so he bought cheap first and would upgrade it later.

Then he became the city's top lawyer. He bought Amanda a 67,000-dollar diamond bracelet and gave clients luxury watches, but he never mentioned the upgrade again.

There was a gold shop by the hospital entrance.

The clerk weighed the chain and quoted a price so low it was almost funny. "Old style. Not worth much."

I nodded. "Sell it."

Signing the form, my fingers paused on the paper. Two letters were engraved on the back of the pendant.

Edward once told me they meant forever.

So gold could lose its value. Apparently, hearts could too.

When I got back to the room, my father was asleep, the IV dripping down bead by bead.

My mother had rushed in from our hometown. Before she even took off her scarf, she asked whether I'd eaten.

She listened to the whole story without cursing Edward once. She only opened the thermos she'd brought.

"Your dad worried you weren't eating well in the city. He made these before his last run, and I brought them frozen," she said.

The pierogies had stuck together in a lump, their skins split open.

Steam rose from the bowl, and my tears dropped into it. My mother wiped my face with a tissue.

"Emily, if this life isn't working, come home," she said softly.

She said it gently, but it cracked something in me that had been holding me upright for years.

At ten that night, Edward finally called. A woman's laughter floated in the background.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"The hospital," I said.

"My mom's at the house. You're not coming?"

"My father's been admitted."

He paused. "Isn't your mom there? Come home for a bit. The IVF paperwork needs your signature."

I gripped the phone and looked at my father's ashen face on the bed.

"Which paperwork?"

"The hospital consent form."

"And the money?"

Edward's patience ran out. "Is the sob act fun for you? The IVF isn't for you alone. It's for both of us. I'll cover the costs for now, and you can pay me back once your dad's 80,000 comes through."

The words chilled me to the bone.

The money my father had bled for was already an entry in Edward's ledger.

My mother snatched the phone from me.

My mother snatched the phone. "Edward, her father is lying in a hospital bed, and you want her to wait at home for your mother?"

Silence on the other end.

When he spoke again, his voice was frosted over. "Mrs. Carter, three years into the marriage, Emily still hasn't conceived. It's normal for my mom to have feelings. If you really loved her, you'd stop dragging her down with your family's messes."

My mother's hands shook with anger.

The noise woke my father, and he mumbled, "Is that Edward? Tell him not to worry. I'll check out tomorrow."

I took the phone back. "Edward, I'm not coming home tonight."

"Think carefully," he said. "My mom's going to the hospital tomorrow to sit in on your tests. Don't waste her trip again."

The line went dead.

Outside the room, a nurse pushed a cart past, its metal wheels grinding shrill against the tile.

A new Instagram post from Chloe popped up on my screen.

In the candlelight, Edward was fastening a thin necklace around her neck.

The caption read, [Someone once said a girl deserves to be remembered well.]

I touched my bare neck and saved the photo.