Chapter 4: The Bottle
On the screen, I watched myself wake up.
I looked smaller than I felt from the inside.
My hair was flat against the pillow.
My hands went immediately to my belly — even half-asleep, even before my eyes were fully open — the way they always did now, the automatic check, the reassurance.
On the screen, Isabella stood the moment I stirred.
"Good morning," she said.
Her voice came through the tablet's small speaker, slightly tinny, but clear enough.
On the bed beside the tablet, the real Isabella said nothing.
On the screen, I said, "Isabella?
What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you." She smiled.
"Marcus told me you'd been admitted.
I wanted to bring you something."
She reached into her bag.
Marcus's hand tightened on the edge of the bed.
On the screen, Isabella produced a small paper cup.
The kind the nurses used for medication.
"The nurse asked me to bring this in," she said on the recording.
"She said you missed your morning dose."
On the screen, I took the cup without hesitation.
I watched myself swallow whatever was in it.
I watched myself hand the cup back.
I watched Isabella fold the cup in half and put it in her bag.
"Stop," Marcus said.
The security officer paused the footage.
The room was absolutely silent.
Marcus turned to Isabella.
"What was in that cup?"
"A vitamin supplement," she said.
"The nurse—"
"Which nurse?"
"I don't remember her name."
"Which nurse," Marcus said again, each word separate and quiet, "asked you to bring medication to my pregnant wife?"
Isabella's chin lifted slightly.
"I don't remember."
"Because there was no nurse." Marcus picked up the tablet.
"Was there."
It wasn't a question.
Isabella looked at the window.
"Play the rest," I said.
The security officer looked at Marcus.
Marcus nodded.
The footage resumed.
On the screen, Isabella sat back down in the chair.
We talked — or I talked, mostly, about the baby, about names, about how tired I was, about how Marcus had been working late.
Isabella listened and smiled and nodded in all the right places.
Eighteen minutes passed.
Then on the screen, I stopped mid-sentence.
I pressed my hand against my side.
"Are you alright?" Isabella asked on the recording.
"I don't — something feels—"
I watched myself try to sit up straighter.
Watched my face change.
"I need to call the nurse," I said on the screen.
"I'll get her." Isabella stood.
But she didn't move toward the door.
She moved toward the window.
On the screen, I reached for the call button on the bed rail.
My hand missed it.
I tried again.
"Isabella—"
"Just breathe," she said on the recording.
Still at the window.
Not looking at me.
On the screen, I slid sideways.
My hand went to the rail.
I was trying to hold on.
"Isabella, something is wrong—"
"I said breathe."
I fell.
The sound came through the tablet speaker clearly — the impact, the sharp intake of breath, my voice saying something that was too quiet to make out.
Then Isabella turned from the window.
She walked toward me slowly.
She looked down at me on the floor.
And then — deliberately, without any hesitation — she lifted her right foot and pressed her heel against my side.
Not hard enough to cause visible injury.
Hard enough to make sure I couldn't get up.
"Don't," she said quietly on the recording.
"Don't reach for anything.
Don't call out.
Just stay there and be still."
"My baby—"
"Is fine," Isabella said.
"For now."
Marcus stood up from the bed.
He walked to the window.
He stood there with his back to all of us, both hands pressed flat against the glass.
Nobody spoke.
The footage continued running.
On the screen, Isabella stood over me for four more minutes before the door opened and Marcus walked in and the recording caught up to the moment we had all already lived.
The security officer stopped the playback.
"I need to call the police," Marcus said.
He didn't turn around.
"Marcus—" Isabella started.
"Don't." He turned then.
"Don't say my name again."
Isabella looked at me.
And for just a moment — one single moment — something crossed her face that wasn't calculation.
Wasn't performance.
It was close to grief.
"You were never supposed to have him," she said.
Quietly.
Almost to herself.
"What?" I said.
She blinked.
The expression closed over.
"Nothing," she said.
"I want my attorney."
But I had heard it.
And so had the security officer.
And so had the gray-suited man by the door, who was already on his phone.
*You were never supposed to have him.*
The baby moved again inside me.
Strong this time.
May you like
Certain.
I put both hands over my belly and looked at Isabella and understood, for the first time, that this had never been about me at all.
