Confusion first.
Then calculation.
Then anger.
Not grief.
Not heartbreak.
Anger.
He looked at me as though I had manufactured the diagnosis merely to humiliate him.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“For five years?”
“Yes.”
He pushed back from the desk.
“And you said nothing?”
I almost laughed.
For years he had demanded my silence.
Now he sounded betrayed that I had obeyed him.
“I tried to call you after the appointment.
Three times.”
His expression flickered.
He knew where he had been.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It answers enough of it.”
Richard stood.
“We’re leaving.”
The doctor reminded him that the medical review was incomplete.
Richard ignored him and walked into the corridor.
I gathered my folder slowly.
The doctor glanced at me.
“Mrs.
Hawthorne, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
And for the first time in years, I meant it.
Richard was waiting near the elevators when I stepped out.
“Who else knows?”
There it was.
Not: Are the children mine?
Not: Why would Jessica lie to me?
Not even: Is the diagnosis really permanent?
His first concern was exposure.
“The doctors who treated you know,” I said.
“Don’t play games with me.
Who else?”
The elevator doors opened.
I entered.
Richard followed.
“Lauren.”
“My attorney.”
The doors closed.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then he gave me a look I had seen him use on employees before firing them.
“Your attorney?”
“The attorney who drafted our prenup.”
He stepped closer.
“Why would he need that report?”
I met his eyes in the mirrored wall.
“He didn’t.
