Page 151 of Nine Months to Bear

Stefan isn’t bringing me cemetery flowers, but he’s definitely dangerous. And I’m definitely not brave enough for any of this.

I was raised to be smart, to be savvy, but how can I be those things in a situation like the one I’ve found myself in? None of it makes sense. None of it is practical.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe love isn’t supposed to be practical. Maybe it’s?—

I drop the knife and press both hands to my mouth, bile rising unexpectedly in my throat.

The smell of garlic and onions and raw meat swirls around me, making everything worse. I stumble toward the sink, dry heaving.

“I’ll be right back,” I manage to gasp out.

Elena barely looks up from her pot. “Take your time,malyshka.”

I make it three steps before my stomach lurches. The hallway stretches ahead of me, impossibly long, and I know I’m not going to make it all the way to the bedroom.

The powder room door is mercifully close. I stumble inside, dropping to my knees just in time. My body empties itself with a violence that has nothing to do with nerves or raw meat smell.

When it’s over, I slump against the cool tile wall, breathing hard. My hands shake as I flush, rinse my mouth, and splash cold water on my face.

In the mirror, I look… different. Not just pale from being sick. My skin has this weird glow to it, like I’ve been using expensive moisturizer. And my hair—I run my fingers through it—when did it get so thick? So shiny? I’ve been too distracted to notice, but it’s been weeks since I’ve had to wrestle it into submission.

I’ve known for weeks that this was happening. But the time has now come to prove it. No more running from the truth, no more hiding from what I swore on the dotted line to provide.

My hands shake as I tear open the first box of pregnancy tests that I stashed under the sink. The instructions blur, but I don’t need them. I’ve guided hundreds of women through this moment. Explained the science. The accuracy rates. The best time to test.

I just never thought I’d be doing it all by myself in Stefan Safonov’s bathroom.

The timer on my phone feels like it takes hours. I sit on the closed toilet lid, the test face-down on the counter, trying not to think.

One line: not pregnant.

Two lines: pregnant.

Simple. Binary. Life-changing either way.

The timer goes off. I stand on legs that don’t feel like mine and reach for the test with fingers that seem to belong to someone else. I turn it over.

Two lines.

Clear as day. Dark as ink. Undeniable as the nausea that sent me running.

Two lines.

The test clatters into the sink. My hands won’t stop shaking.

I grab the second test, rip it open, do it again. The same two lines appear.

The third test. Same result. Same unavoidable truth.

I’m pregnant with Stefan Safonov’s baby.

Something about it being proven real now justfeelsdifferent. I sink onto the bathroom floor. The tile is cold through my dress. Everything is cold except the heat spreading through my chest—panic or joy or something I don’t have a name for.

This is what we wanted, right? What the contract specified. What I agreed to. Signed my name to. We had sex on his desk to seal the deal, literally.

Carry his child. Deliver it. Then walk away.

Except now, there’s an actual child. Not atheoreticalchild. Not asomedaychild. Right now, actual cells are dividing in my uterus, rewriting my hormones, changing everything.