Your Privileges End Tonight

Natalie's POV

The bathroom tile was cold enough to make my thighs ache, but I stayed on the floor anyway.

I pulled my nightgown up to my ribs and studied my stomach under the vanity light. Tiny bruises spread across the skin below my navel, some yellowing, some fresh and blue. They were a map of every needle I'd pushed into myself over the last four years.

I tore open an alcohol pad out of habit. The sting of it filled my nose.

The medication box sat beside my knee. A white label on the side read *Cycle 7 — Stimulation Start: March 14*. Three days away.

My last chance. We'd agreed on that months ago. Seven rounds, and then we'd stop, no matter what.

I rested my head against the cabinet and remembered sitting on this exact floor after the first transfer failed. I'd been crying so hard I couldn't breathe. Alex had come in still wearing his scrubs, dropped to his knees on the tile, and taken my hand in both of his.

He'd kissed the back of it like a promise.

"I married you, Natalie. Not your womb. Even if it's only the two of us, we're still a family."

I'd believed him. I'd built four more years on that sentence.

I picked up my phone and called the fertility clinic's after-hours billing line. They'd promised to confirm the final payment tonight so the pharmacy could release the last of my meds.

"Hi, this is Natalie Carter. I'm calling to confirm my payment for cycle seven?"

Keys clicked on the other end. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter. I'm not seeing anything. The balance is still outstanding."

"That's not possible. The transfer was scheduled from our joint account last week."

"It hasn't come through. If we don't receive it by Friday, we'll have to push your cycle."

"Push it how long?"

A pause. "Until payment clears. I'm sorry."

I thanked her, though I barely heard myself, and hung up.

There had to be a glitch. A bank hold. Something boring and fixable.

I opened the banking app with my thumb shaking slightly over the screen. Our joint savings account loaded, the one we'd nicknamed *Baby Fund* back when the name still felt hopeful instead of cruel.

Available balance: $43.17.

I stared at the number until it blurred. Then I tapped the transaction history.

Two days ago. Outgoing transfer: $28,000.00.

Recipient: Meridian Private Recovery.

I didn't know what that was. I didn't need to. My chest went tight because some part of me already knew exactly who it was for.

The clinic's payment notice was still on the counter where I'd left it, a red star stamped beside *FINAL CYCLE — PAYMENT DUE*. I reached up and pulled it down into my lap.

Then the past month started lining itself up in my head, piece by piece.

The nights Alex didn't come home. "Emergency at the hospital, don't wait up."

The way he started bringing his phone into the shower. How it always sat face down on the table, even at dinner, even in bed.

And the day Victoria crashed her car.

He'd been driving me to the fertility center for bloodwork. His phone buzzed, and he went pale reading it. He dropped me at the entrance, kissed my cheek without looking at me, and said he'd park and come up.

Through the lobby glass, I watched his car swing out of the lot and turn the wrong way.

I'd sat through my appointment alone and told myself it was work.

I called him now. It rang four times before he picked up.

"Hey, Nat. Kind of in the middle of something."

"Twenty-eight thousand dollars," I said. "Every dollar we saved for our last chance. Where did it go?"

Silence. Behind him, a woman laughed, bright and easy, followed by the clink of glass.

I'd heard that laugh across a hundred dinner tables. Victoria.

"You're with her," I said.

"I'm at Meridian. Victoria's doing her evening session." He didn't even lower his voice. "I was going to tell you."

"When? After the clinic canceled my cycle?"

"Natalie, she was in a serious accident. Her physical therapist says the first few months are everything. If she doesn't get intensive private rehab now, she could have permanent damage. She can't wait."

"And I can? Alex, that money was for our baby."

He sighed, the long-suffering sigh he used on difficult patients. "Six rounds have already failed, Natalie. What makes you think a seventh will work?"

The words hit somewhere beneath my ribs. I grabbed the edge of the sink to pull myself off the floor, and the payment notice crumpled in my fist against the porcelain.

"You told me," I said slowly, "that we'd try one more time. You promised."

"I said we'd see. You keep throwing money at something that isn't going to happen. At some point someone has to be realistic."

My free hand went to my throat out of habit. There was nothing there now. Just bare skin where my mother's pearls used to sit.

I'd sold them to pay for round four. Alex had held me in the jeweler's parking lot afterward and told me it would be worth it.

"I sold my mother's necklace," I said. "For us. For this."

"I know. And I appreciated it." His tone softened, the way you'd soothe a child. "But Victoria's situation is different. She has a real chance at a full recovery. That money is actually going to do something."

Victoria laughed again in the background and called his name.

"I have to go," he said. "We'll talk when I get home."

The line went dead before I could answer.

I stood there gripping the sink, the phone hot in my palm. Then it buzzed with a notification.

*Victoria Hale shared a new post.*

I knew I shouldn't open it. I opened it anyway.

The photo showed a suite that looked more like a boutique hotel than a hospital. Cream walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, a gold Meridian Private Recovery logo embossed on the headboard. Victoria lay propped against white pillows, hair glossy, smiling up at the camera.

Alex was bent over her, tucking a blanket around her legs.

His left wrist was turned toward the lens. Silver band, navy face. The watch I'd given him for our eighth anniversary, engraved on the back with *Always us*.

The caption read: *Some people give you a second chance at life. Thank you for mine, A. I'll never forget it. ❤️*

Forty-two likes already. Comments filled with hearts and "He's a keeper!"

My stomach turned. I leaned over the sink, sure I'd be sick, but nothing came.

The phone rang again. Alex.

For one pathetic second, I thought he'd seen the post and was calling to explain. To apologize. To say any of the things a husband should say.

I answered.

"One more thing," he said, brisk now. "Victoria's recovery celebration is Saturday. Her family's hosting at the club. I need you there, and I need you to behave."

"Behave," I repeated.

"Don't ruin Victoria's celebration because you're disappointed about another failed attempt."

I looked at the medication box on the floor. At the bruises on my stomach. At the crumpled notice with its red star.

Eight years. Every night of our marriage, no matter how badly we'd fought, I'd said goodnight before I hung up. Even when he was working a double. Even when he didn't say it back.

"Natalie? Are you listening?"

I pressed my thumb to the red button.

The screen went black, and my reflection stared back at me from the glass.

I didn't say goodnight.