Page 50 of Nine Months to Bear

My mother practically vibrates with excitement. “Olivia connected with Mr. Safonov at the charity gala.”

Before she can continue raving about my new “friend,” the third mimosa arrives in a glass that doesn’t match the others—a slight that must be amended immediately. Mother pulls the server aside and starts reprimanding her in a low murmur.

While she’s discussing with the waitress, Walsh bends closer. “How convenient for you. A fertility specialist struggling to keep her doors open suddenly catches the eye of one of Boston’s wealthiest bachelors. If only all of us could solve our professional challenges so… horizontally.”

“I figured I had to start catching up with you!” I reply in a bright, sickly-sweet voice. “You already have so many of those kinds of ‘connections.’”

Her lip twitches like she wants to sneer but she’s too self-controlled to let it happen. “Professional networking is essentialin our field. If you knew that, perhaps things would’ve turned out differently for you.”

Walsh turns to my mother before I can respond. “Margaret, how is the research coming on your cardiac stem cell paper? I hear Harvard is very interested.”

My mother obviously didn’t hear any of our conversation. She glows under Walsh’s attention. “I can’t believe you remembered! We’re making progress. The preliminary results are promising.”

Iremembered the paper, but she couldn’t have cared less about talking to me about it, could she?

“I’d love to discuss it with you sometime. Perhaps over coffee?” Walsh suggests. “I have some contacts at the NIH who might be interested in funding your next phase.”

Or she’ll kick off my mom and scribble her own name under the title instead. That’s what Dr. Walsh does best: backstabbing thievery.

I observe them as they chatter. This is the world my mother wanted for me. Lies and bullshit pseudo-flattery exchanged over ludicrously expensive mimosas.

Where’s that potted plant? I really do think I might yak.

“Well,” Rebecca says suddenly, jarring me from my thoughts when she rises and sends her chair screeching backwards on the checkered tile, “it’s been a pleasure, ladies. Margaret, we must catch up properly. The research committee meets next Thursday—join me for drinks after?”

My mother smiles. “I’d be delighted.”

As Walsh saunters away, my resolve crystallizes into something cold and hard. I don’t want to be anything like Rebecca Walsh.

Whatever this thing with Stefan is—business arrangement, momentary madness, or something far murkier and more dangerous—I’m in too deep to back out now. But I’ll win or lose the Mass Gen partnership on merit alone. My work, my clinic, my methods.

I won’t stoop to that bitch’s level.

I turn to find my mother watching me with an expression I’ve seen countless times. “You should be more strategic with Rebecca,” she admonishes as she starts carving into her salmon tart. “Antagonizing her serves no purpose.”

“She stole my research, Mother. She’s systematically poaching my patients.”

“And now, she has better funding, better equipment, and apparently, better connections. So I’d say everything has worked out nicely for her.”

My mother sets down her knife with a soft clink and fixes me with a hard stare. It’s a stare that informs me her money line, the thing she truly brought me here today to say to my face, is on the tip of her tongue.

“Unless, of course, your connection with Safonov changes that equation. So let me ask you: Will it?”

22

STEFAN

The warehouse squats in a forgotten corner of Boston’s industrial district. Even the cockroaches here have abandoned hope.

And I don’t blame them. It’s intentionally grim here.

Dust settles in thick layers across cracked concrete. Water drips somewhere in the unseen distance, the splashes marking time like a metronome. Overhead, dim fluorescent lights flicker and buzz, giving off just enough illumination to reveal floors stained with decades of spilled secrets and unanswered screams.

The sound of my fist against Volkov’s jaw echoes off the metal walls. It’s a wet sound, a meaty sound. Like a ripe peach being split open. Blood sprays in a fine mist that settles on my shirt cuffs.

Italian linen ruined with the blood of another traitor. What a waste.

“I swear to God, I don’t know any Iakov!” Volkov pleads, the words garbled through split lips and broken teeth. “Those texts are fake!”