The plastic hospital bracelet was too tight, pinching the skin of my wrist every time I shifted Noah in my arms.
Through the double-paned glass of Room 402, the gray morning light of Chicago was just beginning to touch the brick facade of the parking garage opposite us.
Noah let out a tiny, shuddering sigh against my collarbone, his warm breath dampening the front of my paper gown.
“Two thousand four hundred dollars a day, Evelyn,” Adrian said, his fingers twitching toward his gold cuff links before he caught himself. “The standard maternity rooms downstairs have the exact same medical equipment.”
He did not look at our son, keeping his back to the bassinet where Leo and Samuel lay under the warm yellow glow of the bilirubin lights.
“The private wing is quiet, Adrian,” I said, my voice slow and flat from thirty-six hours of labor. “The boys need to rest, and so do I.”
“It is an unnecessary drain on our liquid cash,” he said, turning to face me with that rapid, practiced sales cadence he used on his venture capital investors. “We have the Vale Capital quarterly audit in three weeks, and every dollar on the ledger needs to look deliberate.”
He pulled a folded document from his breast pocket, the heavy bond paper rustling as he smoothed it against the bedside tray.
“I need your signature on the joint asset authorization form for Meridian Private Bank,” he said, holding out a heavy black rollerball pen. “It will allow me to consolidate the accounts and cover these hospital invoices without waiting for the trust clearance.”
My hand rose slowly to my collarbone, my fingers pressing against the hollow of my throat.
“Not today,” I said, leaning back into the stiff pillows. “My head is spinning from the epidural, Adrian. I can barely read the print.”
“It is a standard administrative transfer,” he said, his pitch rising slightly as he took a step closer to the bed. “It takes five seconds, Evelyn.”
“I will look at it tomorrow,” I said, closing my eyes to shut out the sharp white glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights.
