“You’ve worked here two years. You’re honest. Loyal. I’m not abandoning you.”
She broke down crying. And Ethan, widowed for three years, felt a familiar ache in his chest.
That night, alone in his study, he stared at the photo of his late wife, Emily.
She had wanted a child more than anything.
Years of treatments. Doctors. Hope that bloomed and died.
Then cancer came first.
And took her before they could try again.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Something about Beatrice’s pale face, her trembling hands, had unsettled him for days.
The next afternoon, when she asked to leave early, he followed her.
At a distance.
She didn’t go to a friend’s house.
She didn’t meet the man who abandoned her.
She walked several blocks into a modest neighborhood and entered a small medical clinic.
The sign read: Riverside Women’s Diagnostic Center.
Ethan hesitated.
Then he went inside.
He stayed near reception, pretending to scroll through his phone.
From down the hallway, he heard Beatrice’s voice.
“Are the full results back?”
Results?
A doctor stepped out holding a folder.
“Beatrice, we need to talk carefully.”
Ethan moved closer, hidden partially behind a column.