Chapter 33

Mr. Polo drove with unnerving precision, his hands gripping the steering wheel perhaps a little too tightly. The interior of the car was hushed, the silence broken only by the low, insistent hum of the city filtering through the glass. Evelyn was a silhouette against the window, her gaze lost in the frantic, impersonal dance of urban activity, a mirror to her own chaotic internal landscape.

“What I’m doing right now flies against every clause in my contract,” Polo finally murmured, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “I doubt my clients will appreciate this, but if it helps you reach a decision that offers any clean end…” He let the sentence hang, weighted with professional fatigue. “Still, I find it courageous, and genuinely kind,” he added, a flicker of a smile appearing, “that you prioritize the parents’ pain over your own legal leverage.”

Evelyn turned her head slightly, meeting Polo’s gaze for a fleeting second, a silent acknowledgement of his compromise, before returning to the shifting tapestry outside. She was thinking of the Mayeurs, yes, but the vivid image of Williams’ face, white with rage and streaked with blood, was far more immediate. Am I making the right choice? she thought, her fingers lightly pressing the fine fabric over her abdomen. Polo’s eyes caught the movement, the unspoken weight of life resting just beneath her touch.

“Tell me, Evelyn,” he asked, choosing his words carefully, “are you morally against abortion?”

“I just believe the parents should decide. Even though this life is within my womb, it originated from a clinical mistake, and it shouldn’t be them who pay the heaviest price for our institution’s failure.”

“If they agree to proceed, do you realize you would officially become a surrogate, carrying a child with no genetic ties to you? Do you understand the emotional and physical impact of that legal separation after nine months?” Evelyn remained utterly pensive, the scenario too vast to absorb. “Ah, here we are,” Polo announced, the car gliding to a stop.

They stepped onto a quiet, manicured sidewalk. The Mayeurs’ house was solid and respectable. Polo walked cautiously up the stone path and knocked. The sound felt loud and intrusive in the late afternoon stillness.

After a moment, the door opened, revealing Mr. Mayeur. His expression hardened when he saw Polo.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Mayeur’s voice was a rough whisper. “I explicitly told Dr. Emilio that all further contact was to be through my counsel.”

“Forgive my intrusion, Mr. Mayeur, but I came to introduce you to someone.” Polo stepped aside.

Evelyn appeared.

Mr. Mayeur’s face paled with shock and displeasure. “What are you doing here, miss?”

“May I speak with you, sir?” Evelyn asked.

He shifted uncomfortably. “Here? I don’t think… My wife—”

“She is exactly the person I’d like to see.”

He stared at her, thrown off. “I doubt she wants to talk to anyone. This whole situation has been—”

“Sir, I am pregnant,” Evelyn stated, letting the weight of the words land. “Please, let me talk to your wife.”

Mr. Mayeur’s gaze dropped to Evelyn’s abdomen before snapping back to her eyes. “You didn’t terminate?”

She shook her head once. “If she absolutely refuses to speak with me, I will leave immediately. Please,” Evelyn urged.

After a brief internal war, Mr. Mayeur stepped back. “Come.” He led them through a hallway that smelled faintly of lemon polish and regret, toward a bright terrace overlooking a quiet garden where his wife sat. He stopped at the entrance, his back a rigid wall.

“Go ahead.” Evelyn, stressed, whispered, “Aren’t you going to tell her that I…?”

“No,” Mr. Mayeur cut her off, his voice flat. “Just go ahead.” Polo remained rooted next to the husband, a sentinel ready to spring into action.

Evelyn walked across the sun-drenched tiles of the terrace. Madame Mayeur was seemingly absorbed in a financial newspaper, her coffee cup cooling beside her. When she finally raised her head, the shock was immediate and paralyzing.

“What are you doing here?”

“Madam… my name is Evelyn.”

“I know who you are. What are you doing here?” Madame Mayeur stood up, her hand flying to her chest. She saw her husband and the lawyer standing sentry by the glass doors. She understood the betrayal instantly. She sat back down, the delicate wicker chair creaking slightly. “Go ahead. Sit.”

“I wanted to tell you, Madam, that I am deeply sorry we meet under these circumstances,” Evelyn began, her voice carefully modulated. “But I am here right now to tell you that I am pregnant.”

Madame Mayeur stared, her surprise slowly curdling into a pained resentment. “We already gave our permission to the hospital to resolve this matter.”

“Is that really what you want, Madam?” Evelyn challenged softly.

Madame Mayeur’s jaw tightened. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Evelyn’s eyes were glistening with emotion. “I want you to explicitly tell me to terminate this child,” she insisted, making the words sound heavy and real. “And I will do it. I know the sheer effort you and your husband poured into this journey, but now there is this life in my womb, and it is genetically yours.”

Madame Mayeur turned her head sharply toward the garden, struggling against the sudden, hot rush of tears. “Do with it what you want,” she choked out.

“Madam, then say it clearly.”

But the words were locked behind a moral wall. Madame Mayeur was deeply religious, and to sanction an abortion was an irreversible spiritual transgression. She and her husband had already crossed so many boundaries. Accepting insemination with another man’s sperm had required endless therapy to separate it from adultery, and now this.
How could she condemn another woman, a stranger with her own traumas, to endure the weight of a pregnancy she did not ask for?

“Please, think about it. I will wait for your answer until Monday at noon.” Her voice wavered, but her core message remained firm. “If by then you do not give me a clear, verbal answer, then I will keep this child. I will carry it to full term, I will nurture it, and the day it cries its first cries, it will be yours. And if you ever wish to discreetly follow its progress, you will know how to contact me.”

Madame Mayeur did not lift her gaze from the tile floor. Evelyn gently placed a pristine white card on the small side table. Tears finally spilled onto her cheeks, hot and sharp, but she stood and left. Her decision was absolute. If no answer came by Monday, this child would be born.

The evening descended, cloaking the hospital in a heavy, humid silence. Williams emerged from the operating suite, the intense smell of sterile ethanol and old blood clinging to her scrubs. Exhausted, she retreated into her private recovery room.

Before the mirror, she slowly peeled off her surgical mask, her reflection pale and drawn. She began her ritual, whispering to the reflection, “Dr. Niran Williams, was this surgery difficult?” She answered herself, her voice a low, precise monologue of self-affirmation. “Of course. There is no easy surgery. But this one was successful. We operated as a single, coordinated machine, and today, Dr. Niran Williams, I reassure you: the child is out of danger. He will regain full motor function. His life will resume where it left off, and this entire annoying incident will, thanks to psychological counseling, become nothing more than a distant memory.” She managed a small, tired smile, a gesture of absolute control restored.

She inhaled deeply.

“Good work, Dr. Williams.”

A sharp, decisive knock on the steel door broke the silence. “Who is there?” she commanded.

“Madam, it’s Romaric. It’s time.”

“Time?” Williams checked her private calendar on her phone, confirming the scheduled visit with Adeline. She let out a short, internal breath of air. She quickly opened a drawer full of carefully folded couture outfits, suits tailored for her. This room was her private sanctuary. She stripped off the stained scrubs, selecting a crisp, architectural suit. With swift, expert movements, she applied perfume, brushed her hair, and stepped back into the armor of her elegance. She exited, Romaric waiting at attention.

Romaric led her at a brisk, purposeful pace toward a discreet car. Just before reaching the car, he paused, his eyes scanning the periphery, then spoke into a walkie-talkie, a quiet instruction barked into the evening air, before slipping behind the wheel.

“You will excuse me, Madam,” he said, pulling sharply away from the curb. “We will be taking several detours.”

“Is there a problem?” Williams asked, instantly alert.

“Just a precaution, Madam, against any lingering media presence or other parties,” he replied, implying the surveillance was ongoing.

“Ah yes.” She exhaled, remembering the cameras and the press waiting for the verdict on her surgical team’s success.

On the road, her phone rang. Her mother, as always, was checking that Niran was adhering to the strict schedule of her mandated visits.

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