A doctor. This must be a doctor.
“I’m Dr. Petrov,” he confirms, as if reading my thoughts. “I’ve been the Volkov family physician for over thirty years. Mr. Volkov called me when you fainted. How are you feeling?”
I try to sit up, and he helps me, adjusting the pillows behind my back. My head pounds. My mouth tastes like metal. And the nausea—oh God, the nausea is still there, churning in my stomach.
“Dizzy,” I whisper. “Nauseous.”
Dr. Petrov nods. “I’m not surprised. Your blood pressure is quite low.” He makes a note on a small pad. “Tell me, when did you last have a proper meal? Something substantial?”
“I... I don’t remember. A few days ago, maybe?”
“And how long have you been feeling unwell?”
“A while. Couple weeks.” Every word feels like a minefield.
Then I notice him.
Dimitri stands by the window, his back to us, staring out at the grounds. He’s completely rigid, his shoulders tense, and his hands clasped behind his back so tightly I can see the white of his knuckles from here. He hasn’t said a word since I woke up or even turned around.
But I can feel his presence like a weight in the room. Heavy. Oppressive. Waiting.
“Mrs. Volkov, I need to ask you some routine questions.” Dr. Petrov’s voice is gentle. If anything else, the man has an excellent bedside manner. “Nothing to worry about. Just standard procedure for a fainting episode. Is that all right?”
I nod, even though I know—I know—where this is going. There’s only one question that matters, and he’s going to ask it, and I’m going to have to answer, and everything is going to fall apart.
“Have you been experiencing any other symptoms? Headaches, fatigue, sensitivity to smells?”
“Yes," I whisper, my heart pounding. “All of those.”
“And your appetite? You mentioned nausea. Is it worse at certain times of day?”
“It’s—it’s all the time now. Morning, afternoon, evening. Everything smells wrong. Everything makes me feel sick.”
He makes another note, and I see a shift in his expression. There’s Understanding. Realization.
Oh no. Oh God,no.
“Mrs. Volkov, I need to ask you one more question.” His voice is still gentle, but there’s a significance to it now. “When was your last menstrual period?”
I can’t breathe or do anything except stare at him with what must be pure terror on my face.
Because Dimitri is right there. He’s going to hear. He’s going toknow.
“Mrs. Volkov?” Dr. Petrov prompts gently.
“I—” My voice cracks. “I don’t?—”
Dimitri turns from the window.
Those gray eyes lock onto mine, and I see the exact moment he understands what the doctor is asking, and what it means. His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens and intensifies.
“Answer the question, Vera,” he commands.
Dr. Petrov glances between us, sensing the tension. “Mr. Volkov, perhaps it would be better if I spoke with your wife privately? Some women are more comfortable discussing?—”
“I’m not leaving.” Dimitri says icily. He moves closer to the bed, and it takes everything in me not to shrink back. “Answer the question.”
I look at Dr. Petrov desperately, silently begging him to make Dimitri leave, to give me even a moment to think and figure out what to say. But the doctor just gives me a small, sympathetic nod.
