Margin Call

The vitamin C tablets sat on her nightstand, a neat orange circle that mocked her. Elena swallowed two every morning, a ritual she'd started when Marcus began coming home later and later. They were supposed to boost immunity. Instead, they just tasted like desperation.

"It's a temporary correction," Marcus said, not looking up from his Bloomberg terminal. "Bear market conditions. We just have to ride it out."

He was talking about the portfolio, but they both knew he wasn't.

Three years ago, when the bull market was still galloping and Marcus had brought home a bottle of Dom Pérignon to celebrate his bonus, Elena had believed him. She'd believed in the inevitability of their ascent. Now, at thirty-seven, she understood that markets could crash, that bulls could run themselves off cliffs, that bearing the weight of someone else's ambition could break your back.

"I'm pregnant," she said.

The keys stopped clicking. In the reflection of his monitor, she watched his face—first shock, then calculation, then something terrifyingly close to fear.

"That's... that's complicated timing."

"Not really," she said, already reaching for the packing boxes she'd hidden in the closet. "I'm done riding out your corrections."

Later, as she taped up the last box, she swept the vitamin C bottle into the trash. Some immunities you had to build on your own.