Page 57 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride

“Just tired,” she murmurs, barely loud enough for me to catch.

“Just tired? You vomited in front of a quarter of our investors and partners.”

“Don’t remind me,” she returns, sounding nothing short of exhausted. She sighs and rubs at her temples while keeping her eyes closed.

I study her closely for another moment, but when my concern only grows, I pull my phone out. “I’m calling the doctor.”

Lily opens her eyes just enough to glare at me. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

She grits her teeth. “I said I’m fine.”

“Lily.”

At my firm tone, she falls silent, then leans back against the couch and curls up again.

While she rests in her place, I call up the private physician and have him come out as soon as he can make it, then I place my phone to the side and glance back at her.

The living room is silent aside from her occasional murmur of discomfort.

I stay by her side, close but not exactly touching her. “You scared me tonight.”

She keeps her eyes closed. “You aren’t someone who scares easily.”

“You’re right, I’m not. That should tell you something.”

With a touch of defeat, Lily keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t say anything else.

Chapter 19 - Lily

Just like the chill I can’t shake, shame lingers on my skin.

The memory loops in my mind, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to crawl up and never look at Sergey or Mikhail ever again.

I threw up on his shoes in the middle of the lounge, right in front of everyone.

That mortification rolls through me again and again while I remain on the couch, trying my hardest not to make a big deal out of it. But I can’t help it.

My body gave out on me out of the blue. Never in my life have I ever done something like that.

And worst of all, I have no idea why it happened in the first place.

Dinner was nothing out of the ordinary, and sure, I was tired after my lab today, but not to the point of hurling randomly.

As much as I don’t want to feed into Mikhail’s obvious worry, I know something’s wrong. This isn’t normal for me at all.

With the blanket draped over my lap and my head leaning against the back of the couch, I still shake subtly. Then Mikhail walks into the dim room with a glass of water. He holds it out for me, waiting while I sit up slowly.

“The doctor should be here in five,” he says quietly, not subtle about the way he studies me closely, searching for anything out of place.

With a numb nod, I carefully sip the water. I don’t even have the energy to argue.

Despite being still, my heart races while I look down at the glass. I want to think that being sick is the worst-case scenario, but the possibility of the opposite being true scares me more.

Eventually, the doctor arrives at the house. He’s an older man with tired eyes, but something about his demeanor is both professional and vaguely knowing, as if he has been working with the Lukovs for some kind. I have the feeling his pockets have been lined with their money to keep him quiet for quite some time.

I don’t ask for his name, and according to them both, I don’t need to know it.