Within minutes, my phone rang with Alexander's call. I silenced it and slipped the device into my pocket.
As I made my way through the corridors, I passed the fertility clinic where we had once discussed treatments—before Alexander decided the problem must be with me, not him, and refused further testing.
That's when I saw them—Alexander and Victoria standing at the reception desk, his arm protectively around her shoulders.
"Mrs. Pierce, your prenatal vitamins are ready," the receptionist called out cheerfully to Victoria. "And Mr. Pierce, the special fertility supplements you ordered for her have arrived as well."
My feet froze to the floor. He'd never once purchased supplements for me during our years of trying to conceive.
"Alexander is so attentive," Victoria gushed to the receptionist. "He even installed a special air purifier in every room of our home to protect the baby."
I remembered the mold in my bathroom ceiling that Alexander had refused to fix for two years, claiming I was "being dramatic" about the respiratory infections I kept developing.