I don't respond to that. I just watch as she paints my nails a soft, pale pink that I picked out because it reminded me of my ballet days, each stroke precise and careful.
By the time she's finished with my nails, taken us into the master bathroom and moved on to a facial, and started working some kind of miracle treatment into my hair, I feel like I'm in a daze. The apartment smells like a spa, and my skin feels soft and clean in a way it hasn't in months. Irina chatters the whole time, telling me about her daughter, her grandchildren, the salon she runs. I let her words wash over me, not really listening, just letting the sound of her voice fill the silence. When I’ve been scrubbed and softened, she unpacks a massage table, assures me that she’s certified in prenatal massage, and proceeds to unlimber every taut muscle that’s been bunched up since I was sold to the Russians.
When Kazimir finally comes back, I'm sitting on the couch, and Irina is packing up her supplies.
He stops in the doorway, and his eyes find mine immediately. There's something in his expression that makes my chest tighten. "You look beautiful," he says, and I hate how much I want to believe him.
Irina beams, patting my shoulder. "She is always beautiful. I just help her see it again, yes?"
Kazimir pays her—more than she probably charges, judging by the way her eyes widen—and walks her to the door. When he comes back, he's carrying a bag, and my stomach sinks.
"What's that?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know.
He sets it on the counter, pulling out a long box. It's white, with a delicate ribbon tied around it, and when he opens it, I see soft fabric inside. Something very small, and when he unfolds it, my heart clenches when I see what it is.
It’s a baby blanket.
My throat closes up, and I can't look away from it. It's pale yellow, with little embroidered stars along the edges. I can’t bring myself to touch it.
"I saw it on the way back," Kazimir says, his voice low. "Thought you might like it."
I stare at the blanket, and something hot and sharp twists in my chest. "There's no point."
He looks at me, his brow furrowing. "What?"
"There's no point," I repeat, and my voice is harder now, sharper. "It might not even be yours, Kazimir. Remember that?”
His jaw tightens, and he sets the box down carefully. "I know that."
"Then why?" I gesture to the blanket, to the apartment, to everything. "Why are you doing this? Why are you pretending like this is something it's not? This is pointless—it’s silly, it’s…”
"I'm not pretending," he says, and there's an edge to his voice now. "I'm trying to?—"
"To what? Make me feel better? Make yourself feel better?" I stand up, the towel slipping from my hair. "I don't even think I want to keep it, Kazimir. I don't think Ican."
The words hang in the air between us, and I see something flicker in his eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or anger.
"You're forcing me," I continue, and my voice cracks. "You kidnapped me. You won't let me leave. You're making me do this, and I?—"
"Is that really how you feel?" he interrupts, and his voice is strained and tense, but still gentle. He takes a step toward me, and I want to back away, but I can't. "If someone wanted you and the baby, wanted to care for you and provide for you and protect you—would you really not want it?"
I open my mouth to answer, to tell him yes, that's exactly how I feel, but the words won't come. Because the truth is, I don't know. I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know if I ever did.
"Svetlana. Tell me the truth."
I feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes, the tightness in my throat that means I'm about to break. I can't do this. I can't stand here and let him see me like this, vulnerable and scared and so fucking confused.
I pivot on my heel and run to the guest bedroom, because it’s the easiest thing to do right now… much easier than facing any of this.
The bedroom door slams behind me, and I lock it, pressing my back against the wood as the tears finally spill over. I slide down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees, and I let myself cry.
I cry for the life I used to have, the one that feels like it belonged to someone else. I cry for the woman I was before my father sold me, before those men touched me, before I became this broken, hollow thing. I cry for the baby I'm carrying, the one I don't know if I can love, the one that might be a reminder of the worst thing that ever happened to me.
And I cry because part of me—some small, traitorous part—wants to believe Kazimir. Wants to believe that he's sincere, that he cares, that he'll protect me and this baby no matter what.
But I can't. I can't let myself believe it, because the last time I trusted someone, the last time I let myself hope, I ended up in a cell in Russia, wishing I were dead.
22
