It comes on suddenly. One second I’m fine, and the next, my stomach is heaving, bile rising in my throat so fast I barely have time to register what’s happening. The room tilts sickeningly, the floor dropping away beneath me. Cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, down my spine. My mouth floods with saliva, that awful pre-vomit feeling I remember from having the flu as a child.
Oh God. Oh no.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.
I shove back from the table so fast the chair screeches against the tile floor, the sound echoing through the kitchen. All threewomen look up, startled, but I’m already moving, one hand clamped over my mouth, the other pressing against my stomach like I can physically hold back what's coming.
“Bathroom?” I manage to gasp out, the word muffled behind my hand.
Mrs. Kozlov points down a hallway, her expression shifting from hostility to something that might be concern. Or disgust. I can’t tell and don’t care. I can’t think about anything except getting somewhere private before I vomit all over this kitchen floor.
I run.
My feet slip on the polished tile, and I nearly crash into a wall as I round the corner into the hallway. My vision is starting to narrow, black spots dancing at the edges. My stomach cramps violently, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.
The bathroom is mercifully close—just three doors down—and I barely make it before I’m on my knees on the cold tile floor, retching into the toilet. Everything comes up—the toast, the coffee, what little was left in my stomach from yesterday. I heave until there’s nothing left, until I’m just dry-heaving and gasping and trying not to cry.
Morning sickness. Of fucking course. Because things weren’t complicated enough already.
I sit back on the cold tile floor, shaking, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My whole body trembles, clammy with sweat despite the cool air. The bathroom spins slightly, and I have to close my eyes and breathe through my nose until the dizziness passes. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out.
The tile is cold against my legs, grounding me. The bathroom smells like bleach and soap, and mercifully, it doesn’t make me want to throw up.
This is going to keep happening. Every morning, probably. Maybe throughout the day. I’m barely six weeks along, and the nausea is already this bad. How am I supposed to hide this? How am I supposed to pretend everything is fine when my body is betraying me at every turn?
Fear claws at my chest and wraps around my ribs like bands of iron, squeezing tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe properly.
If Dimitri finds out I’m pregnant, he’ll ask who the father is. And when I tell him (because I won’t be able to lie, I’m a terrible liar) when I tell him it’s Alexei’s baby...
I can’t even finish the thought because I can’t imagine the rage in those cold gray eyes. The violence. What he would do to me. To the baby.
He married me for revenge. To punish the Ashfords. To have leverage over my father. What would he do if he found out I was carrying his dead brother’s child? That I’d been seeing Alexei in secret for eight months? That the man he loved and lost had been in love with me? That we were planning a future together?
Would he kill me? Would he kill the baby? Force me to get rid of it? Use it as another weapon against my family? I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this man except that he’s capable of incredible violence and he hates me with every fiber of his being.
My hand spreads across my stomach, protective and desperate. This tiny life is dependent on me to keep it safe.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I promise. I’ll figure something out. I’ll?—”
A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I press my hand harder against my mouth, fighting back a whimper of fear.
“Mrs. Volkov?” It’s one of the younger women from the kitchen, her voice tentative and uncertain. “Are you... are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady even though I’m anythingbutfine. I’m the opposite of fine. I’m drowning. “Just—just a moment!”
I flush the toilet and force myself to stand on shaking legs. My reflection in the mirror is awful. I’m pale as a ghost and sweaty with red-rimmed and haunted eyes. I look like I’ve been through a war. Or like I’m about to start one.
I splash cold water on my face, rinse my mouth out several times, and try to make myself presentable. But there’s no hiding the pallor of my skin or the way my hands tremble as I grip the edge of the sink. There’s no hiding the fear in my eyes or the guilty flush on my cheeks.
I can’t let them see me like this. God forbid, if they start to suspect. Mrs. Kozlov already looked at me strangely when I ran from the kitchen. If she starts putting pieces together, if she mentions it to Dimitri, if anyone realizes...
I take a deep breath, smooth down my sweater with shaking hands, and open the door.
The girl is still there, hovering uncertainly in the hallway. She’s maybe nineteen or twenty, with those same frightened brown eyes. Up close, I can see she’s pretty with high cheekbones, asmall pointed chin, and full lips. She wears the same uniform as Mrs. Kozlov, but hers looks newer, less worn. Maybe she hasn’t been here as long.
“Mrs. Kozlov wanted me to check on you,” she says in lightly accented English that’s better than Mrs. Kozlov’s. It’s clear she’s also from Russia but has learned English through schooling. “She says... she says you don’t look well.”
No shit, I want to say, but I don’t. Instead, I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. “I’m fine. Really. I think—I think the coffee was just too strong on an empty stomach. That’s all. I’ll be okay.”
