Her grin widens. “Adorable. Tell me everything. I only know business-Vlad, Bratva-Vlad. What’s he like, you know, during the daytime?”
I sip my tea. “Daytime Vlad is surprisingly gentle. Still terrifying, but also sweet.”
“He’s besotted.” Trina grins. “Next he’ll be scheduling your spa appointments.”
“Don’t joke. He tried to force me to see a doctor the other day.”
Her expression is serious when she asks, “Something wrong?”
“Just stomach stuff. It’s stress, that’s all.”
She arches a perfect brow. “Uh-huh.”
We debrief holiday gossip: who wore what, whose hedge fund imploded, whether Countess Katya’s giant diamond is real or Russian lab-grown. I manage a laugh, feeling somewhat normal until the croissant’s almond aroma wafts up, hitting me the wrong way. My stomach somersaults. Light spears behind my eyes.
I press a hand to my mouth. “Excuse me.”
I half jog to the unisex restroom, high heels skidding on tile. The lock clicks and retching takes over. In the mirror, my skin looks candle-white.
A knock sounds. “Teresa? It’s Trina.”
I crack the door. “Give me a minute. I think it was the pastry.”
When I return to the table she eyes me, then the untouched croissant. “Pastry, my ass. Come on.”
“Where?”
“My doctor. Now.” The tone she uses once convinced a Sotheby’s clerk to reopen after hours. Resistance is futile.
The office of Trina’s personal physician, Dr. Geneviève Renard, occupies the entire twenty-ninth floor of a Park Avenue tower. The lobby smells of eucalyptus and suede, a Chihuly glass sculpture spirals above a marble koi pond. Private-practice luxury—no waiting rooms, no receptionist windows—just a concierge in dove-gray scrubs who greets Trina by name and whisks us down a corridor lined with abstract watercolors.
Inside an exam suite, the walls glow a soothing sea-glass green. A cashmere throw blanket rests across the exam chair like a spa amenity. Dr. Renard appears moments later in a white coat over silk trousers, silver hair in a chic knot.
Trina explains with a wave of her manicured hand. “My friend is feeling queasy. Could be a bug, could be something else entirely. Either way, it’s been bothering her for a while. I want to make sure it’s nothing. Or, if it’s something, know what it is and what we need to do about it.”
The doctor’s warm gaze settles on me. “Let’s start with vitals and the basics.” Blood pressure, temp, pulse rate, last menstrual cycle, any medications, unusual stress. I fumble through dates and Trina tries to be helpful by supplying guesses. My cheeks flare.
Dr. Renard smiles kindly. “We’ll run a quick urine test, rule out infection, and, given symptoms, check for pregnancy as well.”
The word lands like a dropped glass. I nod weakly, head spinning while I disappear into a bathroom nicer than my first apartment.
Five agonizing minutes later, I’m perched on the edge of the upholstered exam chair, Trina clasping my icy fingers. The doctor returns, chart in hand, expression softly radiant.
“Congratulations, Ms. Winslow. The test is positive. You’re pregnant.”
The room tilts. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Vlad’s New Year’s Eve balcony kiss flashes. Tears spring, hot and sudden.
Trina squeals happily, squeezing my hand hard enough to bruise. “Oh, honey!”
I cry silently, a tidal wave of awe and terror washing over me.
Evening has drifted in by the time we exit onto Park Avenue, snowflakes twirling like diamonds under the streetlights. I hug a folder filled with prenatal instructions to my chest.
Trina flags a black sedan with one imperious wave. “Straight to Angeloff Tower,” she tells the driver, then turns to me. “You’ll tell him tonight?”
“I have to.” The thought flutters in my chest—part hummingbird, part grenade.
“He’ll be ecstatic,” she says, squeezing my knee. “And lethal to anyone who looks sideways at you. Well, more lethal.”
