Chapter 84 Thirty days. That's how long it's been since Kovan Krayev decided I wasn't worth fighting for. I count the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. Pathetic, but there it is. But hey, people lose their soulmates every day, right? It's possible to be happy, to move on, to pick up the pieces of your fractured heart and get on with life. Mom did it. Why can't I? I walk over to her bedside and stroke her arm, the one that's had cannulas sticking out of it for the last month. The veins have turned permanently blue. "How's she doing today?" I ask the nurse as she adjusts Mom's IV drip. "Same as yesterday. Stable but weak." She's using the gentle, polished tone reserved for hopeless cases. I fucking hate that tone. After she leaves, I settle into the chair beside Mom's bed and watch her sleep. Her face is gaunt now, cheekbones sharp. The cancer is eating her alive from the inside out-and she's letting it happen. Just like Dad did. "Knock, knock." Charity appears in the doorway with coffee and what looks like genuine concern. Her hair is shorter-a choppy bob that makes her look years younger. "New haircut?" "Thought I'd try something different. Osip said it made me look sophisticated." She pauses. "Not that we're talking about him." Right. Because my best friend is dating my ex-boyfriend's best friend, which makes everything wonderfully complicated. "How are you holding up?" she asks. "I'm furious." Charity blinks. "At Kovan?" "At her." I nod toward Mom. "She's giving up. Refusing chemo, refusing blood transfusions, refusing to fight. It's like watching Dad all over again." "Vesper-" "She could beat this if she wanted to, Char. Dr. Nass says the survival rates for her type of cancer have improved dramatically in the last five years. But she won't even try." Charity sits down in the visitor's chair, studying my face. "You look terrible. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?" I can't remember. Food tastes like ash lately. Everything does. "There's an experimental trial," I say instead. "Right here at St. Raphael's. Dr. Nass is running it. New surgical technique combined with targeted therapy." "Does your mom qualify?" "No. But I could pull strings. Get her on the list." Charity winces, and I know she's thinking what I'm thinking-doing that would mean bumping someone else. Someone who's been waiting. Someone who deserves their chance at life just as much as my mother does. "Fuck," I whisper. "I'm turning into everything I hate." "You're scared," Charity argues softly. "There's a difference." "Is there? Because I'm sitting here contemplating medical ethics violations while judging Kovan for his moral compromises. Pot, meet kettle." Before Charity can try to talk me out of that particular downward spiral, Dr. Nass appears in the doorway holding a manila folder. "Dr. Fairfax? Could I speak with you privately?" I follow her into the hallway, my stomach twisting. Bad news always comes with folders. "The bloodwork you insisted on came back," she explains. "I'm a universal donor. I told you I could help with transfusions." Dr. Nass opens the folder and hands it to me. "Under normal circumstances, yes. But these aren't normal circumstances." I scan the lab results quickly. Everything looks standard... until I reach the bottom of the page. Then my vision goes hazy. The folder slips from my hands, its contents scattering across the hospital floor like snowflakes. I press my back against the wall and slide down until I'm sitting on the cold linoleum, surrounded by my lab results, by my tears, by the wreckage of my life. Thirty days ago, I thought I'd lost everything. Turns out I was wrong. "Congratulations," says Dr. Nass. "You're pregnant."