He Sent Me a Blanket but Hugged His Intern in Bed Chapter 02

He Sent Me a Blanket but Hugged His Intern in Bed Chapter 02

The next morning, I took a cab to the hospital alone.

Check-in, blood work, the endless wait in the hallway—by the time I sat down, my back was screaming.

While I waited to be called for my ultrasound, I scrolled through my feed. The first post was Amber’s, uploaded ten minutes ago.

A photo of a caramel latte, steam curling upward, set against the window of some upscale café. The caption read: [Brrr, it’s freezing out there. Thank goodness for Mr. Cole’s hot pick-me-up—instant recovery!]

In the corner of the frame was a sliver of a man’s suit sleeve. The same jacket I’d ironed and hung in his closet yesterday morning.

So much for that “important meeting.”

I took a screenshot and filed it in my encrypted folder, where a dozen other screenshots already lived: late-night takeout orders, anonymous flower deliveries, and a hospital-bed photo from the night Amber had a fever, with Spencer’s silhouette sitting in the chair beside her.

I’d confronted him about each one.

“She’s a rising star on the team. Of course I’m going to look out for her.”

“Can you stop reading everything as something dirty?”

Every time, he’d made me feel like I was the paranoid one.

“Natalie Grant, room 3.”

The nurse’s voice cut through. I pushed myself up and walked in.

The doctor studied the screen, frowning.

“The baby is still breech. And your amniotic fluid is low—there’s a risk of early labor.”

“Is your husband here today?”

I shook my head. “He’s working.”

The doctor sighed. “Work can wait. This is serious. You could go into labor any day. You need bed rest and must monitor fetal movement closely.”

I memorized every word, took the paperwork, and walked out.

Outside the hospital entrance, the cold hit me like a slap. My phone buzzed.

Spencer.

I answered. His voice was clipped and impatient.

“The driver said you weren’t there. Where did you go?”

“Already done.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Everything’s fine.”

A pause. Then the tension in his voice eased.

“Good. I have a trip to the next city this afternoon. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Take care of yourself at home.”

In the background, I heard Amber’s bright voice.

“Mr. Cole, their chestnut pastry is amazing. Can we grab a box for the road?”

He muffled the phone. “Sure. Go pick some out.”

Then he came back on. “I’ve got to go.”

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone and dialed another number.

“Attorney Miller? It’s Natalie Grant. That divorce agreement we discussed—please finalize it. I’ll take nothing except sole custody. Yes. Send it to my new address.”

I hung up and took a cab back to the house I’d shared with Spencer.

I needed the rest of my things.

The living room was quiet. I spotted the cashmere throw crumpled on the rug beside the sofa. A dark coffee stain had spread across it, and muddy footprints marked the edge.

I bent down to pick it up.

The lock clicked. Spencer walked in holding a bakery box from the same upscale café.

He froze when he saw me. “You’re back?”

Then he noticed the throw in my hands. He crossed the room in three strides, snatched it from me, and dropped it into the trash can.

“Amber spilled coffee on it last night. She felt awful, so she insisted I bring you this cake to make up for it.”

He set the box on the table, his tone casual. “It’s ruined. I’ll have my assistant order you a more expensive one. It’ll be here tomorrow.”

I stared at the throw, crumpled and discarded.

Last winter, he’d used that same blanket to wrap me into a cocoon and pull me onto his lap while we watched TV.

Now, because someone else had stained it, he didn’t even think to wash it. He just threw it away.

I lifted my head.

“Spencer.”

“Do you really think anything that gets dirty or broken can just be replaced with something more expensive?”

He frowned—that familiar flash of irritation crossing his face. “What are you talking about now? I said I’d buy you a new one. What more do you want?”

I wasn’t angry. I was just tired.

“Nothing.”

I walked to the bedroom and pulled out my two remaining suitcases.

“I’m taking the rest.”

Spencer watched the bags roll across the floor, and his face darkened.

“Natalie, enough. I’m leaving for two days, and you want to pick a fight right now?”

I didn’t answer. I pushed the suitcases toward the front door.

As I passed the coffee table, I glanced at the pastry box—the logo from that same upscale café.

“Take your cake on your business trip,” I said, my hand on the doorknob, not looking back.

“Amber’s waiting for you downstairs.”

His breath caught behind me.

I didn’t give him time to answer. I opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind me, cutting off whatever excuse was already forming on his lips.