The Swap(58)

Vik had said Freya was protective of her baby, had accused Jamie of being a danger to it. That was slightly concerning, but it had to be the hormones. Eventually, Freya would see that motherhood was a giant drag, and she’d be better off handing the whining, drooling, pooping creature over to its father. Jamie would be a better mother to it. She had no life except for the store, which, let’s face it, was hardly taxing. Without the baby, Freya could soar to greater heights, even greater fame.

Her fans would want to see the baby, of course. It couldn’t disappear from her life completely—as much as we might want it to. But weekend visitation would allow us to take enough photos of the child to make Freya look like a loving mother, while preserving her brand as a sexy, independent woman. She’d get cool sponsors like makeup companies, fashion designers, and vodka distilleries, not just boring baby food and diaper brands. She’d get invited to resorts and on cruises, and I’d go with her. We would travel the world together, our relationship deepening through our shared experiences.

I had been right to wait a couple of weeks to send the e-mail. It would have implicated me if I’d been dismissed with tears in my eyes and, moments later, Jamie and Brian had turned up demanding answers. I hadn’t expected the confrontation to put Freya into labor, but the baby would be fine. It was only a couple of weeks early, if it had been conceived the night of the swap. Which it had been. Because Max was sterile. And Freya was lying.

The tiniest niggle of concern tickled the base of my brain as I pulled into the hospital parking lot. If the baby had somehow been conceived later, as Freya and Max claimed, it might not survive. I wanted to get rid of the thing, but not that way. I wasn’t a monster. I may have fantasized about Freya miscarrying, but this would be too gruesome. But I pushed my concerns aside as I turned off the ignition and hurried across the darkened parking lot toward the building. Freya needed me, now. Whatever happened.

Jamie and Brian were loitering outside the main doors, looking fretful. As soon as she spotted me, Jamie rushed up to me. “Low. Freya’s in labor.”

“I know.”

“Did she call you?”

“Yes,” I lied. Freya was no longer speaking to Jamie, so she’d never find out that it wasn’t true.

“Thank God. It’s been hours. She needs someone in the room with her, someone who knows about labor. Can you be there for her?”

“Of course.” I didn’t relish seeing the object of my devotion screaming, puking, and pooping (yeah, I knew about labor), but I enjoyed usurping Jamie’s position.

Brian had joined us now. “Low, we need some information.”

“Like what?”

“The baby’s weight and length would help. Or if the doctor says anything about it being premature.”

“We just need to know that the baby’s okay,” Jamie said.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I replied, noticing the concern, even fear, on her face. “It’s only a little early.”

I was moving toward the automatic doors when I heard Jamie say, “Wait!” My shoulders tensed. “It was you.”

I almost didn’t stop, considered pretending I hadn’t heard her. But I turned toward her. “What was me?”

“Did you send me the link about Max’s paternity case?”

“No.”

“Freya told you about that night, didn’t she? You know Brian is the baby’s father, not Max.”

Her eyes were full of tears of gratitude. She thought I had done this for her. She thought I was on their side. God, she was naive. But I couldn’t admit that I’d sent the e-mail. If Freya found out, she’d banish me.

“I’ll let you know how the baby is,” I said. And I hurried inside.





55


Somewhat thankfully, the nurses would not let me into the Freya’s room. “It’s been a difficult labor,” the heavyset warden of the maternity unit explained. “She’s been trying for hours. They’re performing an unscheduled C-section.”

“Why?” I asked. My mom had given birth in the living room without incident. “Has something gone wrong?”

“Tiny mother, big baby,” she said dismissively, returning to her paperwork.

Big baby. That probably meant it was not premature. That probably meant it was Brian’s child.

I lingered in the hallway, waiting for some news. A couple of hours passed before a handful of people emerged from the operating room, men and women in scrubs chatting casually among themselves. A man with dark eyes and a shiny bald head looked approachable. I hurried up to him. “Can you tell me how she is?”

“Mother and baby are fine,” he said, in an unfamiliar accent.

“Thank God. Was it born early? The baby? Is everything okay?”

His smooth brow furrowed. “Are you family?”

“Yes.” I lied. “I’m Freya’s niece. Can I see her?”

He didn’t question the fact that this gangly, unattractive girl was related to the gorgeous couple in the delivery room. “You can visit her when she’s moved to the maternity ward. But I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“My name is Low,” I said quickly, afraid she wouldn’t figure out that the hovering niece was me.

The man popped into the room and out again. “Have a seat in the waiting area.” It was a command.