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Her eyes hardened. The sadness in her chest began to crystallize into something colder, something sharper. The leather chair in the VIP waiting room was cold enough to seep through the fabric of Felicity's skirt, chilling the back of her thighs. She sat with her knees pressed together, her hands clutching the small Chanel purse in her lap like it was a lifeline. The silence in the private fertility clinic was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall and the distant hum of the air conditioning.

She checked her watch for the third time in five minutes. Forty-five minutes past her appointment time.

A nurse walked by, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly on the polished tile. She glanced at Felicity, and for a second, their eyes met. It wasn't a look of professional reassurance. It was pity. A soft, curdled kind of pity mixed with a sharp edge of curiosity. Felicity looked away, fixing her gaze on a potted orchid that looked too perfect to be real.

Her chest felt tight, a physical pressure that made drawing a full breath difficult. She unlocked her phone, her thumb hovering over the messaging app. The screen was empty. No messages from Garold. No "Good luck." No "Let me know what the doctor says." Just the blank white space of their digital silence.

Two nurses were standing near the reception desk, their voices low but not low enough in the acoustic vacuum of the room.

"Chandler," one whispered.

"I saw it on Page Six this morning," the other replied, a hushed thrill in her voice.

Felicity's fingers stiffened around her phone. Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribs. She didn't want to look. She knew she shouldn't look. But her thumb moved of its own accord, opening the browser and navigating to the gossip site that had become her morning ritual of masochism.

The headline was bold, black, and screamed at her: "Garold Chandler Spotted with Mystery Woman at OB-GYN – Heir on the Way?"

Felicity felt the blood drain from her face. She tapped the photo. It was grainy, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, but the silhouette was unmistakable. The woman had long, blonde extensions and was clinging to the arm of a tall man in a charcoal suit. Jenilee Shaw.

A wave of nausea rolled through Felicity's stomach. The room tilted slightly to the left. She closed her eyes, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat.

"Mrs. Chandler?"

The door opened, and Dr. Evans stood there. His voice was hesitant, lacking his usual booming confidence.

Felicity stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of water, trembling under her weight. She forced them to stabilize, locking her knees. She smoothed the front of her skirt, plastered a neutral expression on her face, and walked toward him.

The exam room smelled of antiseptic and latex, a sterile scent that made her lightheaded. Dr. Evans shuffled the papers on his clipboard. He looked at the chart, then at the wall, then at his shoes. Anywhere but at her.