Page 51 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

“Ms. Miller is pregnant. Roughly eight weeks.”

The world stopped.

Everything—sound, movement, thought—juststopped.

“What?” My voice came out strangled, barely audible.

“Eight weeks,” the doctor repeated, clearly assuming I was the father. “The pregnancy is stable, but given her current condition, she’ll need to take it easy. No stress. Proper nutrition. Rest.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

Eight weeks.

Eight weeks ago, we’d kissed in my office. Scratched the itch in my bed. Told ourselves it meant nothing.

But this wasn’t nothing.

This was a baby.

Mybaby.

I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat, my mind spinning out of control. “She doesn’t know?”

The doctor frowned. “I haven’t told her yet. I wanted to inform you first, given the circumstances.”

I nodded numbly. “I’ll…I’ll tell her.”

“Good.” The doctor handed me a pamphlet about prenatal care, like I was supposed to know what the fuck to do with it. “She’s in room twelve. Try not to overwhelm her.”

He walked away, and I stood there like an idiot, staring at the pamphlet in my hand.

Cassandra was pregnant.

With my child.

A baby that shouldn’t exist. That we’d never planned for. That complicated everything in ways I couldn’t even begin to process.

I ran a hand down my face and cursed in Russian. “Yebat’. Chert voz’mi. Blyad’.”

Fuck. Goddammit. Shit.

Cassandra and a baby.Mybaby.

We’d never talked about feelings. Never discussed the tension that crackled between us like a live wire. Never acknowledged that what we had was more than just scratching an itch.

And now there was a baby.

I walked to room twelve on autopilot, my legs moving without my brain’s permission. Pushed open the door quietly.

She was lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed, with an IV in her arm. Her face was still pale, but her breathing was steady now. Normal.

I pulled a chair up next to her bed and sat down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands.

What the hell was I supposed to do?

She might’ve betrayed us. Might’ve sold us out to whoever orchestrated that ambush. Might be the reason three good men almost died tonight.

But she was also carrying my child.