Page 44 of Nine Months to Bear

I jerked back into consciousness before I could answer, but the question remains.

Is it?

Reality blurs with fantasy as I stare at the ceiling of my jet. Something unfamiliar is churning in my gut.

Not regret—I don’t do regret—but something equally unwelcome. I’ve never second-guessed myself after sex before. I’ve snuck out of hotel rooms early in the morning and neglected to leave my number, but I’ve never fled the state.

Yet here I am, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, running from the echo of her gasps and the hint of her perfume on my skin that the hottest shower possible couldn’t burn away.

I run a hand over my face. The dream felt too real, too revealing. When I bent her over that desk, taking her with a hunger that surprised even me, I told myself it was just part of the plan. A way to secure my claim, to create an heir and bind her to me so no one would think twice when Aster Fertility Solutions is suddenly under the Safonov Holdings umbrella.

What I didn’t plan was how I would feel afterward: this strange hollowness, this… restlessness. Like I’ve sampled something addictive and now crave more, more, fuckingmore.

I don’t want a relationship. Never wanted what my parents pretended to have until it blew to fucking smithereens. I wanted an heir and nothing more.

This is supposed to be a give-and-take. Well, she’s supposed to give and I’m supposed to take. But the second I slipped inside of her, Olivia took something I didn’t expect.

As soon as she got dressed and left my office, I knew something was wrong. I wanted her to come back. Which is why I left.

Officially speaking, I left on business. That’s the lie I’m telling myself and everyone else who asks. The Miami deal needed my personal attention, which is why I revved up the private jet in the middle of the night and hopped on it before the sun was even up.

But the truth feels more like retreat. As if staying near her another moment would reveal something in me I’m not ready to face.

Mikayla materializes, pulling me from dangerous introspection as she drops news articles onto my lap.

“Morning reading,” she says, her tone lifeless as she hands me coffee exactly how I like it—black, scalding, strong enough to fuel the jet we’re on. “Someone’s running their mouth.”

My jaw clenches as I scan the headlines.Boston Business Journalblares across the top:SAFONOV HOLDINGS UNDER SCRUTINY: FINANCIAL IRREGULARITIES RAISE RED FLAGS AS CEO DANCES WITH DOCTOR.The article details suspicious patterns in my company’sacquisitions, citing “anonymous sources familiar with the matter.”

Someone’s talking. I have theories about who.

Iakov Zakharov.

But below the fold, a smaller article punches me in the gut. The headline calls me a “reclusive billionaire,” which is bullshit. I’m seen all over town; I just don’t tell the world who I’m fucking, which they hate.

That isn’t what bothers me, though.

What bothers me sits beneath the words, in grainy black and white. A photo from the gala. My hand is at Olivia’s waist, her face caught mid-laugh. Even in the poor print job, the camera captured something tangible between us.

The sight of her makes me want to parachute out of this fucking plane and find her immediately.

I fold the paper into a tight square, like that’ll keep the doctor boxed up and out of sight. This is exactly why I left. Distance provides clarity. Perspective. Control.

All things that are in short supply these days.

Mikayla watches me with that unreadable expression of hers. “I saw her when she came to the office looking for you. She’s pretty.”

I shoot her a warning glance. “Irrelevant.”

“Of course,” she agrees. “Should I have our lawyers contact the paper about this article?”

“Immediately. Tell them to focus on source confidentiality violations.”

Mikayla nods and retreats to the back of the plane to make the most of the in-flight WiFi.

When she’s gone, Taras leans forward from the row behind me. I didn’t even realize he was awake.

“Gotta be Iakov, yeah?” he mutters, rounding the row to drop into the seat across from me. His perpetual five o’clock shadow is darker than usual. Dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept. “The timing’s too perfect. Information starts leaking the same week he secures that waterfront deal? Not a coincidence.”