Page 190 of Nine Months to Bear

“Stefan’s assistant. She’s the one who?—”

“We don’t know any Mikayla.” He seems genuinely confused. “Our client is someone else entirely.”

I blink, more lost than ever.If not Mikayla, then who?

The coffee table taunts me with its perfect arrangement. That stupid bowl of fake fruit, the precisely fanned magazines, the coasters no one will ever use. It’s all so fucking civilized while my entire world burns down.

Out of nowhere, an urge overtakes me. I kick it. Hard. The bowl goes flying, fake apples rolling across the hardwood. The magazines scatter. One of the coffee mugs tips, spilling across the glossy wood.

“Feel better?” Medina drawls, not even looking up from his phone.

No. I don’t feel better. I feel trapped and stupid and so angry I could set this whole house on fire. “I?—”

“Now, now. Is that any way for a mother-to-be to behave?”

The voice comes from behind me. Familiar but wrong. All fucking wrong.

I turn slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

She stands in the doorway primly. Silver hair swept into an elegant chignon. Cream-colored suit, pristine, untouched. The same warm smile that fooled me completely when she came into my clinic God knows how long ago.

“Hello, Olivia,” Genevieve says—except I’m now starting to think that that was never her real name. “We have so much to discuss.”

I want to say something, but I don’t remember how. I’m too busy staring at the woman I knew as Gen, trying to reconcile the vulnerable widow who cried in my office with this creature wearing her face.

The transformation is so complete it makes me dizzy. Or maybe that’s the pregnancy. Or the handcuffs cutting off my circulation. Or the fact that my entire life has imploded in the span of a few short hours.

“You look confused, dear.” She settles into the armchair across from me, crossing her ankles with elegance. Her Prada sandals catch the light—butter-soft leather with gold detailing. “Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry.” She gestures to Medina, who disappears into the kitchen.

“I want answers,” I croak.

“Of course you do.” She runs her hands over her skirt, every movement deliberate, controlled. “Intelligent women always want answers. It’s what makes you so predictable.”

I gulp. “You played me. When we met, I mean. You lied.”

“I gave you what you wanted. A patient with a touching story. An investor when you needed one most.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Tell me, would you have been so accommodating if I’d walked in as myself? Or would you have seen the threat?”

“Who are you?”

“Someone with a vested interest in Stefan Safonov’s future.”

Medina returns with a tray—finger sandwiches arranged on china, cut into perfect triangles, the crusts removed. Like we’re at a fucking tea party instead of a kidnapping.

“Eat,” Gen says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“The baby needs nutrients.”

The casual way she mentions my pregnancy makes my skin crawl. She knows. Of course she knows.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Such impatience.” She selects a sandwich and takes a small nibble. “You young women, always rushing. Never taking time to savor the moment.”

“As if this is worth savoring?” I snap despite my better instincts. “This moment where I’m handcuffed in a strange house with fake FBI agents and a fucking spook of a liar?”

“Yes, you should savor it—because this is the moment where you learn the truth.” She sets down the sandwich and dabs her lips with a napkin. “About Stefan. About his empire and your place in it.”