Chapter 88 88
Kate’s POV
It’s been a long time since I last saw Elliot.
I won’t say I miss him. I don’t miss him. It’s just that… every time the doorbell rings and I’m alone, I think it’s him. My body tenses before my mind can process it. My pulse races. I walk to the door with my heart in my throat, imagining his silhouette on the other side, and when I see the delivery guy or the neighbor with a plate of cookies, relief floods me… but so does a sharp sting of something I’ve learned to recognize.
Disappointment? Fear? Hope? It’s a mixture of all three.
Andrew has changed. Not subtly or gradually. It’s been a visible, constant shift that has settled into the house like a new rhythm that no longer revolves around us, but around him. Since he took over as CEO, his life moves at a speed I can barely keep up with. He leaves at seven in the morning with the phone already glued to his ear and returns when the house is silent, when the living room lights are off and I’ve already fallen asleep in bed or on the sofa. Sometimes I don’t even hear him come in.
Now he has friends. Many more than I remembered him having. Men who disappeared when he was sent to Lisbon, when his career seemed stalled, and who now reappear with surprising naturalness, as if they’d always been there waiting for the right moment to return. They call him for dinners, for drinks after work, for Sunday morning golf games. Also for meetings that start as “informal” and end at three in the morning in some elegant downtown restaurant. There’s always something on his schedule. Always someone who wants to see him.
His calendar is full of plans, activities, commitments. Some include me. On those occasions I become the perfect wife who accompanies the CEO to a company dinner or a reception where everyone seems to have known each other for years. I sit beside him, smile when appropriate, nod when they talk about figures, investments, or strategies I don’t fully understand. Andrew introduces me with pride, a firm hand on my back, and I keep smiling because that’s what’s expected of me.
Other plans don’t include me. Weekend trips with important clients, events where “it’s not necessary” for me to go because I’m too tired or because “with the pregnancy I won’t enjoy anything.” He says it gently, with that calm logic that leaves little room for argument. Sometimes he adds that I’m “too heavy” or that I should rest more.
And he’s right. I’m in the eighth month. My body no longer moves with the lightness it once had. My feet swell by the end of the day, my back starts aching if I stand too long, and getting up from the sofa requires a small effort that didn’t exist before. Everything weighs a little more now.
But what weighs the most isn’t the pregnancy.
It’s watching him leave without me.
It’s seeing his life expand outward, full of people, new places, conversations I don’t know, while mine shrinks a little more each day inside this house.
The house is no longer small for him. Now everything has to impress. Sometimes he arrives unannounced with two or three people behind him, laughing with that relaxed confidence that seems to follow him everywhere lately. He enters the living room speaking loudly, as if the entire space belongs to him, and opens an expensive bottle of wine without even asking if I was doing something else.
“It’s important they meet my wife,” he says then, coming over to kiss my cheek in front of everyone.
His guests always look at him with attention. Some with respect, others with admiration and curiosity. I smile because that’s what’s expected. I serve the dinner the girl who now comes to clean and cook some afternoons prepared—Andrew insists it’s not fair for me to do everything while pregnant—and I move between the kitchen and the dining room listening to him talk about the company.
The men who accompany him nod as they listen, leaning forward in their chairs as if every word matters.
Andrew shines in those conversations.
He looks comfortable, confident, as if he’s always belonged in that world.
And while they watch him with respect and expectation, I realize something I hadn’t wanted to admit until now.
I feel smaller and smaller in that scene.
And so… the days pass.
That night he came home at four in the morning. Drunk. I heard him from the bed: the front door opening forcefully, clumsy steps in the hallway, his loud voice calling me.
“Kate… love… where are you?”
He stumbled into the bedroom, taking off his jacket and throwing it on the floor. He smelled of whiskey, tobacco, and a woman’s perfume that wasn’t mine. He undressed carelessly, shirt falling, pants halfway down. He climbed into bed, reaching for me with his hands.
“Come here,” he said, voice thick. “I need you.”
I pulled away a little.
“You’re drunk, Andrew. You could hurt me. Or the baby.”
He sighed, as if I were a capricious child.
“Just a little. Please.”
I refused. I turned my back to him. He stayed still for a while, breathing heavily. Then he started tossing and turning, restless. Half an hour later he tried again. His hands on my waist, my hips, seeking my body. I got up quickly, heart racing.
“No,” I said firmly. “Not tonight. I don’t like doing it when you’re drunk.”
I left the bedroom and went to the guest room. I locked the door. I sat on the bed, hugging my belly, waiting for the baby to calm down. I cried silently until I fell asleep.
The next morning he came in. Wrinkled suit, red eyes, hair disheveled. He sat on the edge of the bed.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I was an idiot last night. I was drunk. I’m sorry.” I nodded. I said nothing. “I need you, Kate,” he continued, voice low. “We haven’t… touched in two weeks. No sex. I miss you. Your body. You.”
He looked at me with those eyes that used to make me tremble. Now they just tired me.
“I’m not in the mood,” I replied. “I’m exhausted.”
He sighed.
“But you just woke up—how can you be tired? Just a little. Please.”
He came closer. Kissed my neck, hands seeking my breasts. I relaxed because it was easier than fighting. I gave in. I moved quickly, mechanically, so it would end soon. He finished in minutes, gasping against my shoulder. He kissed me, said he had a meeting at ten, and left.
I stayed in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. Empty.
Around eleven I went out for my walk, as I did every morning. The doctor had insisted I move a little each day, that fresh air and walking would help circulation and my back, so I tried to keep the routine, even though every step was slower than the last. The neighborhood was quiet. I walked slowly along the sidewalk, one hand on my round belly, breathing the cool morning air while trying to convince myself that this ordered, stable life was exactly what I’d chosen.
My body no longer responded the same way. The weight of the pregnancy pulled on my back, hips, legs. Still, I was grateful for those minutes outside the house, away from the silence of the living room.
I don’t know what to think about sex with Andrew. The pregnancy made me feel heavy, uncomfortable, clumsy in my own body, and the desire that once appeared occasionally now seemed to have evaporated. I felt no pleasure. I didn’t even seek it. I just waited for it to end, mind elsewhere, trying to ignore the discomfort of having him so close when my body no longer reacted to him the way I wanted.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s the pregnancy. If it’s the exhaustion. Or if I simply no longer desire him.
The memory of that morning still weighed on me when the pain arrived.
It was sudden.
A sharp stab in my lower belly that made me stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. The air escaped my lungs as if someone had punched me from inside. Automatically I placed both hands on my belly.
“No… not now…” I murmured.
I leaned against a lamppost because my legs stopped responding. The pain intensified, spreading through my entire abdomen in a hot, tight wave. It wasn’t mild, nor one of those uncomfortable pulls I’d felt before. This was different. Deeper. More urgent.
I tried to take a step.
I couldn’t.
I looked back. The house was far—too far. At least twenty minutes walking, maybe more at this pace. Panic rose slowly in my chest.
With trembling hands I pulled out my phone and dialed Andrew’s number. I listened to the ringtone while trying to breathe calmly.
Nothing.
I called again. The phone rang once more, insistent, but no one answered. Maybe he was still in a meeting.
I called a third time.
Nothing.
Tears began to rise without me being able to stop them. The pain returned, stronger this time, squeezing my belly as if my body were preparing for something that shouldn’t happen yet.
“God…”
I tried to open the app to call a taxi, but the screen shook in my hands. I closed the app before confirming the ride.
No.
I didn’t feel well.
The baby moved restlessly inside me, pushing hard against my abdomen. That scared me more than the pain.
I dialed emergency services.
A calm voice answered on the other end. They asked what was happening. I tried to explain between short breaths, telling them I had sharp pain in my belly, that I was eight months pregnant, and that I couldn’t walk. They asked for the exact address. I gave it as best I could, wiping tears with the back of my hand while speaking.
“The ambulance is on its way,” the voice said. “Try to stay calm.”
I hung up.
My legs could no longer hold me. I slowly sank to the sidewalk, leaning my back against the base of the lamppost. The pain came and went in waves that forced me to close my eyes each time it returned. The street remained quiet around me, as if nothing were happening.
Tears ran unchecked.
And in the middle of that fear, that endless wait, a thought appeared that I hadn’t expected.
Elliot.
The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. I heard the sirens before I saw it turn the corner, blue lights reflecting in the house windows. Two paramedics got out quickly and approached me with questions I answered as best I could while they helped me onto the stretcher.
“Breathe slowly,” one of them said.
I nodded, trying to focus on the sound of my own breathing as they settled me inside the vehicle.
The doors closed.
As the ambulance pulled away, I closed my eyes for a moment and thought of Andrew. That he hadn’t answered the phone. That he was probably still in his meeting, surrounded by people looking at him with respect while he talked about business and important decisions.
With trembling hands I took my phone and called Elliot.