It’s Brad’s.
Useless. Worthless. Stupid fucking whore.
“Mia.” The memories part to let the present in. To letYulianin. He’s staring at me, his gray eyes hot as coals, refusing to be overshadowed by the ghosts of my past. “Look at me.”
He’s demanding my full attention. He always is, isn’t he? Whether we’re in bed or we’re fighting or worse, he won’t be overlooked. Won’t accept anything less than one hundred percent of my attention.
It’s what drew me to him. What draws me still.
“Breathe with me,” he commands.
And I do.
He places my hand at the center of his chest. Lets me hear how it goes. How it’s supposed to go.
I keep breathing until I remember.
A kindly-looking doctor shows up. I answer his questions as best as I can, then I keep breathing slowly, deeply. In, out—just like Yulian taught me.
He gives me a quick physical, then gets the ultrasound.
“This might be a little cold.”
Freezing gel hits my belly. I want to cry out, but force it back. It’s not the gel that’s got me panicking—it’s the lingering pain in my core. Like contractions, but way too soon.
There’s no way it’s viable.I bite back tears and force myself to sit through it.I’ve lost it. It’s gone.
“Mia.” It’s Yulian, sounding transfixed. “Look.”
And then I see it.
No—her.
The doctor grins. “See that? That’s your baby. A healthy little girl.”
On the monitor, in blacks and whites and grays, I see it for the first time. My child—our daughter.
“B-But…” I stammer. “The bleeding. The pain.”
“It’s not uncommon to bleed a little after getting knocked around like you did.” The doctor keeps moving the probe around on my belly. “Pain was probably in your lower back as well. We’re lucky you didn’t go into early labor, though.”
“So… she’s fine?” I blink. It doesn’t feel real, a stroke of luck like this. “She’s okay?”
“I’d still like to keep you overnight to keep an eye on things,” he hedges. “But the bleeding seems to have stopped on its own. The sac’s intact. I see no signs of fetal distress. It’s probably an abundance of caution, but I hope you’ll indulge me.”
“Of course,” Yulian answers for me. “Anything they need.”
They.Me and the baby. Our baby—our little girl. “Thank you,” I whisper to the doctor.
“It’s my job.” He deflects with a wave of his hand. “I’ll order your transfer to the maternity ward. Get you all set up in your room for the night. Your husband is welcome to stay for visiting hours.”
“I’ll spend the night,” Yulian says, whipping out his platinum card. His tone brooks no argument. “Get us a suite. Only the best for her.”
The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he schools it quickly. “I’ll let admissions know.”
Then he’s gone behind the curtain.
I take a moment to take it all in.
