"What happened? Where are you? I'm coming over right now!"
"I'm home..."
"Stay right there. Twenty minutes!"
She hung up.
I remained on the bathroom floor, arms wrapped around my knees, waiting.
The tiles were freezing, cold seeping through my clothes, but I couldn't summon the energy to move.
Twenty minutes later, frantic knocking echoed through my apartment.
"Anna! Open up!"
I dragged myself to my feet and unlocked the door.
Yekaterina stood there in an elegant Chanel suit with a Hermès bag—clearly she'd rushed over from some society function. But she didn't care about appearances now, immediately pulling me into her arms.
"Oh my God, what happened? You look awful!"
Her expensive perfume—some limited edition Dior—was comforting and familiar. It made the tears come faster.
"I... I can't..."
The words stuck in my throat.
She guided me to the bed, those beautiful dark eyes full of worry. "Take your time. Tell me what's going on."
I gathered every ounce of courage I had left and forced the words out.
"I'm pregnant."
Yekaterina went completely still.
She stared at me with wide eyes, mouth slightly open, clearly stunned.
"What? You're... pregnant?"
I nodded as fresh tears spilled over. "And I lost my job today."
"Jesus..."
For a moment she said nothing, then pulled me close. "Oh, honey... how did this happen?"
In her arms, I finally let myself fall apart completely.
All the fear, frustration, and despair I'd been holding in came pouring out. I sobbed until I couldn't breathe, like a lost child.
Yekaterina held me through it all, rubbing my back, not saying a word—just being there.
When I finally calmed down, she asked quietly, "What about the father? Does he know?"
I shook my head. "He doesn't know. And I can't tell him."
"Why not?"
I met her eyes. "Because he's Alexander Volkov."
