Page 232 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

Petra slides a second page toward me, already flagged for signature. “The figure is there.”

I look down.

Enough to matter. Not enough to feel bought.

Which, coming from Alester Chandler, may be the closest thing to grace he knows how to offer.

“I don’t understand,” I say before I can stop myself.

Alester’s gaze rests on me, steady and unreadable as always. “You do.”

Maybe I do. Maybe this is apology in the only language he respects—terms, amendments, numbers, closure.

It doesn’t make him soft. It doesn’t erase anything. But it does let me leave without feeling like I’m being forced to drag the ghost of his money behind me forever.

I sign. My hand is steadier than I expected.

Petra takes the pages back, checks them, slots them into the folder with her usual efficiency, and says, “A finalized copy will be sent this afternoon.”

There’s a pause after that, one of those strange little pockets of air where a meeting is technically over but nobody has stood yet.

Alester looks at me and, for the first time since I’ve known him, seems very slightly less certain of what comes next. “You look well,” he says.

It’s such an odd, human sentence from him that it almost makes me laugh.

“I am,” I say.

He nods once.

Not warm. Not cold either. Just acceptance.

When I stand, he does too. Petra steps aside to let me pass, and for one brief second, as I move toward the door, Alester says, “Maggie.”

I turn back.

He doesn’t speak immediately, which means whatever he’s about to say costs him something.

Then: “Take care of yourself.”

The words are simple. Plain. Completely unadorned.

And because they are, I believe he means them.

I hold his gaze for a second, then nod once. “You too.”

And that’s that.

When I step outside, the day is bright enough to make me squint.

For a second I just stand there on the front steps, breathing.

Done. Not healed. Not untouched. Not magically free of everything that came with it. But done. My hand goes, almost without thought, to the curve of my stomach.

Three months.

Still surreal. Still terrifying sometimes. Still real in a way nothing else has ever been.

I’m smiling before I even see him. Maybe because some part of me already knows.