Page 8 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss (Oops Baby #1)

Within a few hours, I’ve cleared out of my rented room, and I’m on a bus with my pathetically small suitcase.

It’s only once I’m sitting watching London slip away that I let myself think about what happened with Markov this morning.

It has a hazy, dreamy feeling. It feels like something that didn’t really happen, although a slight soreness between my legs and the dampness of my knickers assures me that yes, it definitely did.

A stupid, spontaneous, wonderful, best moment of my life event, before the total implosion. When I was in his arms and joined with him, I felt good. Loved. Important.

It was perfect, even if remembering it is bittersweet because he walked out without a second glance.

Probably Markov does that all the time. Has sex that is. Maybe he has sex with loads of women every day.

Needles stab behind my eyes again and my heart attempts to wither like an apple left too long in a fruit bowl.

I can’t help the first tear, and I blink it away furiously. I stare intently at my lap, then the back of the seat in front of me. It seems somehow representative of the way my life has suddenly shrunk.

I should have… What should I have done to make today turn out differently? I guess I could have stopped Markov as he walked out, but maybe he would have fired me for being clingy?

If only my mother hadn’t called.

Probably I wouldn’t have been sacked if I had finished my work rather than had sex with my boss, but oh.

Oh no.

A horrible thought springs into my head. I assumed Markov would protect me if he was told. But how do I know he didn’t order Denis to dismiss me?

Markov is notoriously silent. What if he hates the aftermath of sex so much, he just walks out without a word and has one of his management team sort it out?

That’s... Horribly plausible. Men never want to talk after sex, or to see a girl again, or so popular culture has me believe. Not romance books, obviously, men are way better there, but not in movies and I’ve read what people say on social media.

Shame crawls over my skin. Okay, this was the right decision, because I’d be totally crushed if Markov hadn’t turned up tomorrow morning, or if, oh god, my neck flushes and my scalp itches, if Denis had actually called Markov, and he’d confirmed my sacking, I’d have died on the spot.

Well.

Not literally. Although, it could be literally. This time when a shudder goes down my spine it’s cold.

Perhaps I got off lightly. I’m not dead, right? Unlike many of the mafia bosses in London who have mistresses, one-night stands, and are generally playboys, despite being filthy rich and gorgeous, I’ve never heard about the Silent kingpin of Mortlake sleeping around.

Maybe I’m the only woman alive to have had sex with him.

Emphasis on alive.

It’s late and raining when I finally reach my hometown.

I duck into the nearest shop on the route between the bus station and my mother’s house.

It’s a bigger store, and as I head to the checkout, I see a little kiosk within the aisles of shampoo and vitamins.

It’s the kind that does over-the-counter medicines… Like after-the-event contraceptives.

The milk is cold in my hand, so icy it’s gnawing into my bone. But I go to the kiosk. That’s the smart decision.

Recollection of the expression on Markov’s face when Rovaj, in the audiobook, said, “I want to breed you, mate,” pulses heat to my core. But I push it away. It wasn’t real.

I look over the counter at the white and pastel packets locked within clear plastic boxes, trying to figure out which I might need, so I can ask for the brand without being like, “I had surprise sex with my boss on a desk, and now I have to ensure I don’t have a lasting reminder of my naivety”.

There’s a sick feeling in my stomach.

I expect to see a pharmacist after a few seconds, and when none arrives, I glance down at the counter.

A piece of folded cardboard declares “closed”.

Ah. After five.

The cold milk bites my fingers as I pick my phone from my pocket.

The only place that’s open “after-hours” is on the other side of town.

It would take me like an hour to walk, and given I am unemployed and with no hope of being paid for the work I’ve done, I can’t afford to splash out on a taxi. Plus, it’s raining.

There’s also a message from my mum, asking why I’m not home yet, and saying she’s so worried she thinks she’s given herself an ulcer.

I sigh.

“What’s the chance of getting pregnant from having sex once?” I type into the search engine.

Thirty per cent .

That’s a seven out of ten probability that I won’t be pregnant.

I need this silly chance, even though it won’t happen. I need hope, and to not feel alone tonight. To dream a little. Just until I visit the shops tomorrow, assuming my mother allows me to leave the house.

It’s a good thing I’m almost certain not to get pregnant.

I tell myself that as I swap the milk into my other hand and flex my frigid fingers.

I’m not wistfully dreaming about carrying Markov’s child, a little reminder of the sweetest and sexiest Monday morning of my life. And someone to love me unconditionally.

Not at all.