Page 74 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, pale and sharp and merciless.

They drag her away the moment we arrive.

I don’t argue—not then. Not when they rush her through triage, not when the nurse grips the back of the wheelchair like she’s afraid Esme might disappear if they don’t get her behind a door fast enough.

A blur of white coats swarms her. Questions, machines, soft commands I don’t understand. And then the doors shut.

Just like that, she’s gone, and I’m left in the hallway. It’s sterile. Bright. Quiet in the worst way.

Time becomes elastic—stretched, snapped, stretched again. I stand motionless while nurses pass without meeting my eyes, while orderlies wheel carts past, while voices murmur behind curtains. Not one of them looks at me. Not one of them dares.

As if the woman on the other side of that wall isn’t carrying my entire world.

My fists stay clenched at my sides. I don’t pace. Don’t speak. I just watch the door. Because I have to believe I’ll see her come back through it.

The minutes become long. Heavy, stretching into something worse than silence.

A part of me wants to tear through the wall and demand answers. To rip someone out by their collar until I have information, but I don’t move.

No one ever sees this part of me. Kion Sharov, infamous bastard, pacing holes in a hospital tile because the only thing that matters is the woman on the other side of the door.

Her voice from earlier echoes in my skull.“It just feels tight.”Her wince. Her hand on her stomach. The way she sank into the car seat like her bones couldn’t support her anymore.

The way she stopped smiling.

It replays. Over and over.

Thirty-eight minutes. That’s how long it’s been.

I know, because I’ve counted every one of them.

The door doesn’t open.

I grind my teeth until my jaw aches.

Then, finally—footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. I turn before he speaks.

“Mr. Sharov?” A doctor. Older. Calm eyes. Clipboard in hand. The kind of man who’s had bad news drilled into his bones.

He stops two feet in front of me.

“Don’t give me the soft sell, Doctor. I want answers, not a pamphlet.”

“I understand you’ve been waiting. I’m overseeing your partner’s case.” He pauses. “May we speak privately?”

“No.”

He hesitates. Swallows. Then adjusts his glasses. “She experienced a subchorionic hematoma—bleeding near the uterine wall. Not uncommon in the second trimester, though concerning.”

My blood runs cold.

He continues. “She’s stable. The bleeding has slowed. The fetus is alive and viable, with a strong heartbeat.”

Fetus.

He says the word like it’s not a baby at all. I nearly crush my own palm with the force of my grip.