“You could have taken the train,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink. “But I suppose you prefer the convenience of a private car, even if you can’t afford it. You always did have champagne tastes on a beer budget.”
“I took a cab, Brendan. It was not a limousine.”
He did not ask about the drive or how I was feeling. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded white document, tossing it onto the mahogany coffee table between us.
“I need you to sign this medical release,” he said, tapping the paper with his index finger. “It gives my mother and me full access to the obstetrician’s records and decision-making authority during the delivery.”
I looked at the bold print at the top of the page. It was a standard power of attorney, but modified to strip away my personal medical privacy during the final trimester.
“I am not signing this, Brendan,” I said, keeping my hands folded in my lap.
“It is a formality, Cassidy,” he said, his voice rising as he took a step toward me. “We need to ensure the Morrison heir is protected by the best doctors in Chicago, not whatever clinic you find on your own. My mother has already spoken to the chief of obstetrics at Northwestern.”
“The baby is healthy, and my doctor is perfectly capable,” I said. “I do not need a specialist chosen by Diane.”
