Page 68 of Cinderella and the Daddy

"Take me instead. My life for hers. It should have been that way from the beginning. I’m a coward."

The offer is genuine, born from guilt and whatever paternal instincts Charles has left. But it's also useless. I don’t know if Cindy has left on her own or if she’s been taken. Charles calling me feels wrong.

"I'll find her," I tell him, and hang up.

No one takes what's mine.

And whether she knows it or not, whether she wants it or not, Cindy belongs to me now.

I'm going to get her back.

And God help whoever stands in my way.

19

CINDY

Isit in the waiting room of the clinic, hands folded in my lap, trying to look casual while my heart hammers against my ribs. Around me, other women wait for their own appointments—some looking nervous, others resigned.

All pregnant.

Getting here wasn't easy. Grigori thinks I'm picking up prescription medication from the pharmacy in the complex. It’s a lie that bought me maybe an hour before he starts wondering where I am. But I need this. Need the confirmation.

Once I know for certain, I’ll tell Luka.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

"Cindy?" The nurse's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

I follow her down a hallway lined with motivational posters about healthy pregnancies and prenatal care. Not long ago, I was a virgin. Now I'm sitting in a paper gown, waiting to confirm that I'm carrying the child of one of the most dangerous men in the city.

The nurse leads me through the routine—weight (up eight pounds), blood pressure (slightly elevated), urine sample (the third one today, thanks to this tiny bladder terrorist). I change into the paper gown that crinkles with every movement, feeling exposed despite the closed door.

"Any bleeding or spotting?" the nurse asks, fingers poised over her tablet.

"No."

"Nausea?"

"Constant until about a week ago."

"Father involved?"

I pause. How do I categorize Luka? Kidnapper-turned-lover? Mob boss? The center of my universe? "Yes. Very involved."

She makes a note, no judgment in her expression. "History of pregnancy in your family? Complications?"

"I... I don't know. My mother died when I was young." The familiar ache blooms in my chest. I'll never know if she had easy pregnancies or if she struggled like I am. Another piece of heritage lost.

"Any chronic conditions? Medications?"

"No to both."

"Alcohol? Smoking? Recreational drugs?"

"Not since I found out." Not that I was much of a drinker before, but the occasional beer with dinner is off the table now.

The questions continue—sexual partners (one), STD history (none), prenatal vitamins (the ones I hide in my tampon box). Each answer builds a medical portrait of Cindy Russo, the pregnant woman. Not Cindy, the mob girlfriend. Not Cindy, the kidnapping victim. Just another woman growing a life inside her.