Page 32 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

D r. Marsh referred me to Dr. Evelyn Harper, an OB/GYN who’s apparently delivered half the babies in Vegas and still manages to look like she sleeps eight hours a night.

Her office is tucked into a fancy medical building off the Strip—cozy, with buttery walls, a shelf of baby books, and a sign near the check-in that says, “Your miracle is my mission.”

A little cheesy, but I’m hormonal, so it works.

“Taylor!” Dr. Harper greets me with a genuine smile and a handshake that’s firm without being clinical. “It’s good to meet you. Dr. Marsh said you’re a bit of a miracle yourself.”

I offer a weak smile. “I think that was her polite way of saying high-maintenance.”

She laughs, eyes crinkling. “Well, we love a good challenge around here. Let’s see how your little one’s doing.”

A few minutes later, I’m lying back on the exam table, shirt lifted, cold gel splattered across my belly like I’m a science experiment. Dr. Harper moves the wand in small circles, frowning at the screen with that focused doctor face that makes me instantly nervous.

My heart stutters. “Is everything okay?”

She doesn’t panic, doesn’t flinch. Just simply adjusts the wand and murmurs, “Let’s try a different angle.”

Another second ticks by. And then?—

The sound of a rapid, thumping heartbeat fills the room. My breath catches.

“There’s your baby,” Dr. Harper says softly, her smile blooming. “And that is one strong heartbeat.”

I laugh and cry all at once, covering my mouth with my hand as relief and joy hit me like a tidal wave. “Oh my God. I didn’t even think this was possible.”

She nods knowingly, handing me a few printed sonogram pictures. “You beat the odds. That little heartbeat? That’s real. And you’re going to be a mom.”

I cradle the blurry photo in my hands like it’s solid gold. “Holy shit.”

Dr. Harper chuckles. “Exactly.”

By the time I leave, I feel like I’m floating, but the moment the office door closes behind me, reality slides in again. I press the sonogram picture to my chest, eyes stinging.

Anatoly doesn’t know. And for now, he can’t.

This baby’s mine. This hope is mine.

At least for a little while longer.

By 10-:30 a.m., I’m back at work and already on my third cup of decaf.

Two front desk clerks are out—one with the flu, the other with a sick toddler—and I’m bouncing between check-ins, room upgrades, and a VIP from hell.

By noon, I’ve clocked more steps than most people do in a day, and my stomach is protesting the protein bar I inhaled in the service hallway between guests. I love this job, but today it’s chewing me up and spitting me out.

The only thing keeping me upright is the thought of a long bath, a fluffy robe, and maybe some Love Is Blind while waiting for Anatoly to get home. That, and the fact that my baby—my miracle baby—is growing quietly inside me like a secret treasure.

The thought still makes my heart squeeze in disbelief. All those years of doctors shaking their heads and using words like “ovarian damage” and “not likely.” And now, somehow, this. It feels like fate handed me a second chance.

Anatoly texts as I’m answering a call about spa availability.

Running late. Meeting with real estate people. Be home soon.

I quickly type a response.

I’ll handle dinner. You like salmon, right?

His reply is a winking emoji, followed by: Only if you’re on the menu, too.

I smile in spite of myself, slipping the phone into my back pocket. He has a way of making everything feel lighter, like I’m not carrying this alone—even if he doesn’t know yet. And for now, I’ve decided he won’t.

Not because I don’t want to tell him. God, I do. Part of me wants to run straight into his office and blurt it out, to see the surprise—and hopefully joy—on his face. But I’m not naive.

This baby changes everything.

Anatoly and I agreed on a year. One year of marriage, tied to contracts and strategy, not love.

Not forever. And as sweet as he’s been—spoiling me with breakfasts, warming my side of the bed, whispering things that shouldn’t make my heart flutter but do—I still don’t know how deep this goes for him.

I do, however, know how deep it’s gone for me.

And that’s why I have to be careful, because I’ve seen what men with power will do to keep it. I’ve seen what they’ll take. And if I tell him, if I give him this piece of me too soon, he might decide it’s not just a baby.

He might decide it’s leverage. He could argue for custody, and he could win .

So for now, this secret is mine.

It’s nearly 7 by the time I finally clock out. My feet are screaming, my back is stiff, and I’ve hit over nineteen thousand steps on my watch. No doubt I’ll break twenty thousand just walking to the elevator.

The Hospitium ’s casino is as alive as ever—bells, laughter, the clinging of slot machines spinning out false hope. I let it all wash over me, hoping the rhythm of it will numb my thoughts for a while.

As I swipe my keycard at the private elevator, I glance around out of habit. A little evening people-watching to unwind. It’s one of the perks of working in a place where fortunes are won and lost before your eyes.

That’s when I spot my brother.

He’s leaning over a craps table, rolling dice with the same cocky grin he’s had since high school. The grin that usually means trouble. But that’s not what stops me cold.

It’s whom he’s with.

Two men flank him—men I recognize from the day Ivan Smirnov strolled into the Hospitium like he owned the place. The two men who were at his side, thick-necked and smug, eyes like dead fish.

My stomach plummets.

The elevator dings behind me, but I don’t move. I can’t, because Chris is laughing with them. Celebrating with them.

And I haven’t heard from him in weeks.

He hasn’t answered a single one of my texts or voicemails since the wedding. I’ve been worried sick, imagining him hurt, broken, overdosed, lying dead in a ditch. Yet the whole time, he was right here, gambling and rubbing elbows with the same men who threatened his life.

A hot, dizzying rage fills my chest.

He lied to me. Again.

The elevator doors start to slide shut, and I let them. I’m not going home. Not yet.

I stalk across the casino floor, cutting through cocktail waitresses and drunk patrons, heels echoing like gunfire. My heart is pounding in my ears, but I don’t stop.

Chris leans in to say something to one of the men just as I reach the table. He doesn’t see me until I speak.

“Having fun, little brother?”