Chapter 7 - The Doctor Who Would Not LieDr. Evelyn Hart arrived in Maine with a leather medical bag, silver hair, and the unimpressed stare of a woman who had delivered babies during snowstorms and had no patience for billionaires.
She examined Emma in a warm upstairs bedroom while rain tapped against the windows.
Blood pressure.
Heartbeat.
Questions about pain, swelling, dizziness, sleep, appetite.
Emma answered everything honestly, even when honesty embarrassed her.
Yes, she had not slept well.
Yes, she had been under stress.
Yes, Andrew’s behavior had made her feel afraid.
No, she had never threatened to harm herself.
No, she had not neglected prenatal care.
No, she was not unstable.
Dr. Hart listened without interrupting.
When she placed the Doppler against Emma’s belly, the room filled with the rapid gallop of the baby’s heartbeat.
Emma closed her eyes.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, her body unclenched.
“There you are,” Dr. Hart murmured.
Emma laughed once, broken and breathless.
“She’s okay?”
The doctor smiled. “Strong heartbeat. Good movement. Your blood pressure is elevated, which is unsurprising considering the circumstances, but not currently dangerous. You need rest, food, hydration, and fewer men with publicists.”
Emma almost cried again.
“I can prescribe the last one strongly,” Dr. Hart added.
Miriam, standing near the door, looked as close to amused as Emma had seen her.
After the exam, Dr. Hart prepared a written statement confirming Emma’s prenatal care and current condition. Miriam reviewed every word.
No drama.
No exaggeration.
Just facts.
Andrew’s team had claimed concern.
Emma’s team answered with medicine.
By evening, the narrative shifted again.
Not completely. Public stories never moved cleanly. Some people believed Andrew because he was rich, handsome, and spoke in calm sentences. Some believed Emma because the photographs from the gala had begun circulating, and in one of them, she stood in the background with one hand on her belly while Andrew kissed Lila under a chandelier.
That photo did what Emma’s pain alone could not.
It made people see.
Comments exploded.
He did that in front of his pregnant wife?
Look at her face.
No wonder she left.
Andrew Weston is trash.
At 9:40 p.m., Miriam’s phone rang.
She glanced at the screen. “Marcus Reed.”
Emma sat on the couch, wrapped in her mother’s cardigan. “Andrew’s attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on speaker.”
Miriam hesitated. “You do not have to listen.”
“I want to.”
Miriam accepted the call.
“Marcus.”
“Miriam. This circus benefits no one.”
“Then tell your client to stop performing in it.”
A pause.
Emma imagined Marcus Reed in some glass office, jaw tight, billing by the minute.
“My client wants confirmation of his wife’s location.”
“No.”
“He is the child’s father.”
“He is not entitled to stalk the mother.”
“That is inflammatory.”
“So was kissing a mistress at a charity gala.”
Another pause.
Emma looked at Charlotte, who was openly smiling into her tea.
Marcus’s voice hardened. “Andrew is prepared to be generous. He wants Emma evaluated by a neutral physician, returned to New York, and placed in a supervised marital residence until delivery.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
Supervised marital residence.
It sounded civilized.
It meant prison.
Miriam’s face did not change. “Absolutely not.”
“Miriam, be reasonable.”
“I am. That is why I’m saying absolutely not instead of laughing.”
“My client is concerned.”
“Your client is embarrassed.”
“He will seek emergency relief.”
“File it.”
“He will allege flight risk.”
“File it.”
“He will allege prenatal endangerment.”
“Then I will file the doctor’s report, the gala photographs, the statement timeline, and a sworn affidavit describing his coercive conduct. I will also request security footage from the penthouse, employee testimony, and discovery related to his affair.”
Marcus was silent.
Miriam leaned back.
“Still there?”
“You’re making this ugly.”
“No, Marcus. Your client made it ugly in a ballroom. I’m just putting page numbers on it.”
The call ended two minutes later with no agreement.
Emma exhaled.
Her hands were cold.
“He really wants me confined somewhere.”
Miriam turned to her. “He wants leverage. Failing that, he wants fear.”
“He has both.”
“No,” Miriam said. “He had both. There is a difference.”
Later that night, after the house had quieted, Emma stood by the window overlooking the black Atlantic.
Her old phone sat in a sealed evidence bag in Charlotte’s office. Her new phone rested on the bedside table.
It rang at 11:03 p.m.
Unknown number.
Emma should have ignored it.
Instead, some instinct made her answer.
No one spoke at first.
Then a woman’s voice whispered, “He took my passport.”
Emma went still.
“Who is this?”
A shaky breath.
“It’s Lila.”
Emma’s fingers tightened around the phone.
Every part of her wanted to hang up. The ballroom flashed through her mind. Lila’s red dress. Lila’s mouth on Andrew’s. Lila’s smile.
“What do you want?”
“I know you hate me.”
Emma closed her eyes. “I don’t have energy to hate you.”
That seemed to break something on the other end.
Lila made a small sound. Almost a sob.
“He hit me.”
Emma did not move.
“He wanted the company phone back. I hid it. There are messages. About you. About the baby. About making you look unstable.”
Emma’s heart began to pound.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“Then call the police.”
“He has people with the police.”
“That’s what he wants you to think.”
Lila breathed unevenly.
“I was stupid,” she whispered.
Emma looked at her reflection in the dark glass. Pregnant. pale. stronger than yesterday, but not yet strong enough to pretend this was simple.
“Yes,” Emma said. “You were.”
Silence.
Then Emma continued, “But stupid is not a death sentence.”
Lila cried then. Quietly. Like someone trying not to be heard.
Emma turned from the window.
“Miriam,” she called.
Down the hall, a door opened.
Emma spoke into the phone again.
“Listen to me carefully, Lila. Are you safe right now?”
“No.”
“Then we are going to get you out.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Emma felt the cruel irony of them.
The wife saving the mistress.
The betrayed rescuing the betrayer.
May you like
But Andrew had built his world by making women compete for his approval.
Emma would not help him do it anymore.
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