I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and pretend everything is fine. I can’t?—
“You’re not eating.”
Dimitri’s voice cuts through my internal panic. He sits at the other end of the table—not as far as he used to, but still maintaining distance—watching me with those assessing gray eyes. This is new, these breakfast requirements. Part of his “keepVera under constant surveillance” protocol since the attack two weeks ago.
Two weeks. It’s been exactly two weeks since the wedding, which means I’m eight weeks pregnant now (give or take since I haven’t been to the doctor). Eight weeks of hiding this secret and morning sickness that’s become all-day sickness. Eight weeks of terror that someone will figure it out.
And somehow, the morning sickness has gottenworse. So, so much worse. It’s not just mornings anymore—it’s all day, every day. The smell of coffee makes me gag. The sight of meat turns my stomach. Everything is too strong, too much, too overwhelming of my senses until I want to crawl out of my own skin.
“I’m not hungry,” I manage, my voice thin.
“You need to eat.” He cuts into his own eggs benedict and I squeeze my hands on my lap to prevent myself from gagging. “You barely touched dinner last night.”
Dinner last night was salmon, and the smell made me run to the bathroom where I dry-heaved for ten minutes, but I can’t tell him that.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the same lie I’ve been telling for weeks. “I’m just not feeling breakfast food this morning.”
He sets down his fork, and I can feel his eyes boring into me. Studying. Analyzing. Looking for whatever I’m hiding, because he knows I’m hiding something. He’s known something was wrong since that first dinner, but he hasn’t pushed. Not yet.
Not until now.
“You’ve lost more weight,” he observes. “Mrs. Kozlov says you’re barely eating anything. That you send back half your meals uneaten.”
Goddamn that woman. She’s really starting to piss me off.
“I’ve just been stressed,” I say, still not looking at him as I’m staring at that horrible, glistening sauce. “After the attack, I haven’t had much appetite.”
I can hear the frown. “It’s been two weeks.”
“I’m aware of how much time has passed,” I snap.
Another wave of nausea hits me, stronger than before. The smell seems to be getting worse, more intense, like it’s physically crawling down my throat. My mouth fills with saliva and cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and down my back.
I need to leave. Now. Before?—
“Vera, look at me.”
I force my eyes up to meet his. Big mistake. The movement makes the room tilt sickeningly. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
“What is going on with you?” His voice has an edge of frustration and something else. Concern? No, that can’t be right. “And don’t say you’re fine, because you’re clearly not.”
“I just need—” Another wave, stronger. The room spins. “I need to be excused.”
I push back from the table, but I move too fast. Way too fast. The world tilts violently to the left, and suddenly I’m not sure which way is up. The floor seems to be rushing toward me, or maybe I’m falling toward it, I can’t tell the difference.
I hear Dimitri say something, his voice sharp with alarm, but it sounds like it’s coming from very far away. Or like I’m underwater and he’s shouting from the surface.
Then everything goes dark.
I wake to gentle hands and a kind voice.
“Easy now. Don’t try to sit up too quickly.”
My eyes flutter open. I’m in my bed? Wait, when did I get here?Howdid I get here? The last thing I remember is the breakfast room, the smell of eggs, and the floor rushing up to meet me.
“There we are. Welcome back, Mrs. Volkov.”
The voice belongs to an older man I’ve never seen before. He’s in his sixties, with an average build, kind blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and thinning white hair combed neatly to the side. His face is gentle, trustworthy, and creased with concern. He wears a simple button-down shirt and slacks—not fancy, but clean and professional.
