The Binding Consent

Aiden Pell and I were three years into a contract marriage.

He gave me money and the surname *Pell* on a black AmEx. I kept his board off his back about the right-family wife they kept floating.

Everyone in our orbit knew there was a girl he'd never gotten over. She was abroad, getting treatment. Sick. Saintly. Forever.

Then I got pregnant.

I told myself, before the contract ran out, this one thing could be the exception between us.

The day Celeste Mowbray flew back into New York, Aiden slid a Form D-7 termination authorization across the breakfast island.

"Terminate the pregnancy. Celeste's heart can't take a shock right now."

I signed the divorce settlement instead.

On my way out of the penthouse, I sent him one text.

*Forgot to mention. The day we got married, you signed the partner-binding consent for the SynchroniSync trial. As of right now, every pregnancy reflex is yours.*

Three hours later, in the dining room at Daniel, while he was cutting Celeste's steak for her, Aiden Pell threw up across her white silk dress.