Page 8 of Slightly Married (Irresistible #2)

T he fertility specialist had spent twenty minutes trying to convince me that ‘natural conception would increase our chances.’ As if I needed a man telling me what to do with my body.

I’d explained I was there to begin planning for artificial insemination right away since my single-mom-by-choice friends warned me about the lengthy process of tracking cycles and optimal timing.

When I mentioned I’d never tried getting pregnant before, the doctor had the audacity to suggest I ‘give it the old-fashioned try’ with my husband first.

A week had passed since I had arrived in Athens. After Konstantin installed me at the villa, he’d promptly disappeared, presumably back to Stella’s waiting arms. Now after this frustrating appointment, retail therapy was the only thing that could salvage my morning.

I wandered through Kalogirou, running my fingers along a rack of silk blouses. The boutique was an oasis of luxury in Athens.

A woman nearby struggled with an armful of dresses in jarring neon shades that would do her olive complexion no favors.

“Those colors will wash you out completely,” I said before I could stop myself. “With your undertones, you need jewel tones like emerald, sapphire, maybe a deep amethyst.”

The woman blinked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Here,” I continued, selecting a deep green wrap dress. “This will accentuate your waist and complement your eyes.”

A saleswoman appeared, lips pressed into a thin line. “May I help you find something?” Her pointed tone suggested I should mind my own business.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I replied with a bright smile, unperturbed. “Just helping a fellow shopper avoid a fashion disaster.”

The customer examined the dress I’d suggested, looking impressed.

“She’s right,” said a deep voice behind me. “That shade is far more flattering.”

I turned to find a tall man with dark hair and intelligent eyes regarding me with amusement.

“I appreciate someone who speaks the truth, even when unsolicited,” he said, extending his hand. “Yiorgos Papadopoulos.”

“Kayla Athanasiou,” I replied, shaking his hand. “And truth is my specialty, especially when it comes to fashion.”

“And what would you recommend for me?”

I assessed him quickly. Broad shoulders, trim waist, confident stance. “This tobacco linen would look incredible on you. Or perhaps a deep burgundy.”

“Interesting,” Yiorgos said, studying me. “You clearly know what you’re talking about.”

I laughed. “It’s a hobby.”

“Well, I’m in need of someone with exactly your talents. I’m redoing my entire wardrobe and could use a personal stylist with your...directness.”

The saleswoman looked horrified at our exchange, which only amused me more.

“You’re offering me a job? Just like that?” I tilted my head. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he replied confidently. “I’m a good judge of character. Besides, Athens is small. I can find out everything about you with one phone call.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” I laughed.

“I believe in getting right to the point,” he countered with a smile. “I need someone who won’t sugarcoat the truth about what works and what doesn’t.”

“Well, you definitely need to retire that tie,” I said, pointing to the dated pattern at his neck.

He grinned. “See? You’re perfect. What do you say?”

I considered his offer, oddly tempted despite myself. “Let me think about it,” I replied, taking the business card he extended.

With everything happening in my life, a job might provide the perfect distraction from baby making and my marriage. After some consideration, I called Yiorgos the next day to discuss the job offer. The work might give me something to focus on besides my increasingly complicated personal life.

I also found a new fertility specialist who didn’t question my choices and simply accepted my money in exchange for her services. Dr. Petrova had been refreshingly direct about the whole process, mapping out a treatment plan without any unwanted advice.

Two weeks later, I sat in the fertility clinic’s waiting room, scrolling through my phone.

After weeks of preparation, hormone treatments, and precisely timed appointments, today was finally the day.

The walls were painted a calming sage green, but nothing could ease the surreal reality that I was about to conceive a child with a man I barely knew.

When the door opened, I looked up to see Konstantin striding into the waiting room, his tailored suit making him look like he was heading to a board meeting. My heart skipped a beat before I forced it to settle.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. This was the first time I’d seen him since I’d arrived in Greece.

“My understanding of basic biology is that my presence is required,” he replied.

I frowned, tucking away my phone. “But you’ve already provided the sample.”

“So I did,” he added, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Without Stella’s assistance.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. The casual mention of his fiancée coupled with the implication of how he might have produced his sample sent my imagination places it had no business going.

“The procedure only requires me,” I clarified, smoothing my white tee tucked into a mini jean skirt. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to be present for my child’s conception.”

His words caught me off guard. I’d assumed he’d simply drop off his contribution and return to his life with Stella, showing up again only when there was news to share.

“Fine,” I nodded, making a quick mental calculation. “But you only enter the room after I’ve undressed and am lying under the sheets, and you must stay by my head at all times.”

“Deal,” he answered immediately.

Twenty minutes later, I was lying on the examination table, sheet draped over my lower half, feeling vulnerable. The paper crinkled beneath me with every movement. When Konstantin entered, he seemed unsure of where to position himself.

Dr. Petrova breezed in after and handed Konstantin some paperwork. “Congratulations, Mr. Christakis. Your sperm had an exceptionally high survival rate post-wash.”

The pride that spread across his face was almost comical. Men and their egos.

I rolled my eyes.

She laughed good-naturedly. “Now, let’s get started.”

I fixed my gaze on the ceiling, trying to ignore the procedure. This wasn’t how I’d imagined creating my first child—legs in stirrups, a doctor with a catheter, and my almost-stranger husband standing awkwardly beside me.

Yet despite everything, a small flutter of excitement stirred in my stomach. Even as a little girl dressing up my dolls, I’d dreamed of being a mother someday.

I’d imagined teaching my daughter to braid her hair, or showing my son how to tie a perfect Windsor knot. I’d pictured family dinners filled with laughter and weekend trips to museums and parks.

When Dr. Petrova inserted the catheter, I winced at the unexpected pinch.

“All done,” she announced moments later. “We’ll need you to remain lying down for about thirty minutes, Mrs. Christakis. Then you’re free to go.”

After she left, an awkward silence filled the room.

“How have you been?” he finally asked.

A laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Making small talk while I’m lying here with your sperm inside me? That’s a new level of weird.”

His deep chuckle filled the room, the sound warming something in me I didn’t want to feel. “Fair point.”

“I’ve been fine,” I replied after a moment. “Your mother has been kind. Your aunt less so, but I have Tia.”

“I’m glad.”

Later, as we rode back to the villa, he broke the comfortable silence. “Do twins really run in your family?”

“Why?” I faced him, curious about the random question.

“You mentioned it to Stella on the plane.”

I smiled at the memory of Stella’s horrified expression. “Oh, that. I made it up.”

“Good. I have been panicking since.”

The admission made me laugh openly, and I caught him watching me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. The walls between us seemed thinner.

“Santo is a twin... well, was a twin,” he said, his voice suddenly somber. “My niece and her mother died during delivery.”

My smile faded immediately. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

We rode in silence for a while, and I found myself placing a hand over my stomach, wondering if at this very moment, something miraculous might be happening inside me.

Was this how it began? This simple medical procedure transforming into a new life that would connect us forever?

When we arrived at the estate, I waited for the driver to open my door, gathering my purse and jacket.

“I’ll be out of the country for a while,” Konstantin said. “Call me when you find out.”

I nodded, stepping out of the car. As I walked toward the villa, I could feel his eyes following me.

Part of me wanted to turn back, to say something meaningful about what we’d just shared. But what was there to say?

This wasn’t a love story. It was a business arrangement with biological consequences.

The air inside the villa was cool and quiet, but I could hear muted female voices coming from the parlor.

I followed them and found Tia, Irida, and Domna sitting around a coffee table laden with tiny sandwiches, pastries, and fruit.

Each woman held a delicate teacup in her hand, and they were chatting and laughing softly.

I hovered in the doorway, unsure of whether to intrude, but Tia beckoned me over.

“Kayla! Come join us,” she called, her smile warm and genuine. “Kyria Christakis made these amazing little lemon pastries that you have to try.”

Over the past couple of weeks we’d become very friendly, and I genuinely liked Tia. She was smart, sweet and easy to talk to. I was grateful to have the company of a fellow African-American. It was almost like having a younger sister.

And yet, I hesitated at the invitation. I could feel Irida’s eyes upon me, her gaze sharp.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” I said, fidgeting with the strap of my purse.

“Nonsense,” Domna spoke up, patting the empty space on the sofa. “Come, sit. Tell us about your day. I’ve been telling Tia about our summer festivals.”

From the day I’d arrived, Domna had shown me nothing but genuine maternal concern, while I could sense the cold front rolling off Irida in waves. I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to offend her.

“If you’re sure,” I said, accepting the invitation and sitting on the love seat next to Tia.

“Where did you disappear to this morning?” Tia asked, passing me a plate with a selection of tiny treats. “I knocked on your door, but you’d already gone.”

Before I could answer, Irida rose abruptly. “I’ve had enough tea for one afternoon,” she announced before leaving.

I felt the rejection deep in my chest. If there was any doubt in my mind, Irida made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me.

“Was it something I said? Or is it my general existence that offends her?” I flashed a smile despite the sting.

“Don’t let it trouble you, dear,” Domna said, patting my knee. “Irida is battling ghosts. You are not to blame for her wounds.”

“What wounds?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

Domna sighed. “It’s a complicated family history; nothing you’ve done. Please have some tea.”

I nodded and was glad when a maid brought me a porcelain cup filled with herbal tea. The distraction was welcome. I sipped for a couple of minutes, feeling my body slowly relax.

“Where were you this morning?” Tia asked, eyeing me over her teacup.

The last thing I needed was for the entire Christakis clan to know about the IUI procedure.

“Doctor’s appointment,” I responded, trying not to think of what could be happening inside my body right now. “Where’s Santo?” I pivoted, adjusting my braids.

Since I moved into this house, I’d never seen Tia without him hovering nearby.

Domna made a small, regretful moue. “He’s off to another one of his races again. That boy is always flirting with danger. Always chasing another dose of adrenaline.” She shook her head regretfully. “I love my grandson, but I hate the dangerous profession he has chosen.”

I understood. I wasn’t big on sports, but I couldn’t avoid seeing images and video clips in the press or on social media about the dashing, daring Greek F1 racer who seemed hell-bent on risking his neck on the track for a win.

Domna wasn’t finished. “Between Santo’s profession and Kostas’ shooting nine months ago, it seems my heart is always in my throat these days.”

I paused with my cup halfway to my lips. “Shooting?”

Domna gave me a strange look. “It was all over the Greek media. He was shot and left for dead on his yacht. His best friend Theo died during the attack. If Stella hadn’t found him... I would have one less son.”

A lump formed in my throat as an image of Konstantin bleeding out while his friend lay lifeless nearby played in my mind. Goosebumps rose on my skin, even though the cup in my hands was warm.

Stella wasn’t just his fiancée; she’d been his savior. Their bond wasn’t merely romantic but forged in survival. I thought about how differently I might feel toward someone who had literally saved my life.

I wanted to ask who did it? Were they caught? How many other scars, visible and invisible, did he carry? Was he still in danger?

But the tightness in Domna’s expression stopped me.

“I’m glad he survived,” I responded, absently tracing the rim of my teacup. The words felt woefully inadequate, but what else could I say?

The conversation turned to less serious matters, and the atmosphere became lighter, more feminine and relaxed. But even as we chatted, I zoned out briefly, allowing my hand to rest on my tummy.

My thoughts drifted to the child Konstantin and I were contracted to conceive. What would they look like? Would it be a girl, a boy, or both?

Beyond appearances, I wondered what kind of mother I would become. I’d always imagined raising my children surrounded by love, with a partner who shared my values and dreams. Now I faced the prospect of co-parenting with a stranger across continents.

Yet despite the circumstances, a fierce protectiveness swelled in my heart. This child—if one was indeed beginning to form—would be loved fiercely.