The day I first held that report, my whole body went numb. I couldn't fathom what it would do to a man like Giles—that proud, that certain of himself—to learn the truth about his own body. I was terrified it would hollow him out, terrified his competitors would smell blood and use it to tear him apart. So I went to Rex Delgado, my closest friend and one of the top urologists in the country, and I begged him to bury the secret. Then I walked into a hospital alone and had an IUD put in, and I told everyone—Giles, his mother, the whole Gilbert family—that I was simply too afraid of the pain, that I didn't want children. For five years I swallowed every name they called me—the barren wife, the hen that couldn't lay eggs—and I carried the weight of the entire Gilbert family's contempt on my back without a word.
I thought I was protecting our love and his dignity.
Now I see it for what it was—one long, cruel joke.
I was about to leave the study when the door behind me opened.
Giles stood in the doorway, eyes dark and cold.
"What are you doing in my study this late?"
"Stealing trade secrets? Who are you running to for help?"