This is happening. Right now. There’s no way out.
“Eight weeks ago,” I whisper. It’s barely audible and quiet. I almost hope he didn’t hear it.
But he did and the silence that follows is deafening.
Dr. Petrov’s expression change completely. The gentle concern is replaced by sharp professional focus. “Eight weeks. Are you certain?”
I nod, unable to speak. I’m unable to look at Dimitri or do anything except sit here and wait for everything to explode.
“I see.” Dr. Petrov stands, moving to a bag I hadn’t noticed on the floor. “Mr. Volkov, Mrs. Volkov, I’m going to need to do a brief examination. Given the symptoms and the timeline, I want to rule out—or confirm—a possibility.”
“What possibility?” Dimitri’s voice is eerily calm. Too calm. The calm before the storm.
Dr. Petrov pulls out what looks like a small machine with a screen and a wand attached by a cord. “A portable ultrasound. It will only take a moment.”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
“Wait—” I start, but Dr. Petrov is already moving the machine next to the bed and plugging it in.
“This is just a precaution, Mrs. Volkov,” he says soothingly as if he can see my panic. “Nothing to worry about. If you could just lie back and lift your shirt slightly?”
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the hem of my shirt. This is it. This is the moment everything ends. Once that ultrasound turns on, once he finds what I know he’s going to find, there’s no more hiding. No more pretending. No more secrets.
Just truth. Terrible, devastatingtruth.
I lift my shirt with trembling hands, exposing my stomach. Dr. Petrov squirts cold gel on my skin, and I flinch at the sensation.
“This might be a bit uncomfortable,” he says kindly, pressing the wand against my abdomen. “Just try to relax.”
Relax. Right. I’m about to be exposed in the worst possible way, and he wants me torelax.
I can’t look at the screen. I can’t watch as he moves the wand, searching, his eyes focused on the monitor. I can’t bear to see the moment he finds it.
But I can’tnotlook either.
So I watch as shapes appear on the grainy black and white screen and Dr. Petrov’s expression shifts from uncertain to certain. He adjusts something, focuses on a specific area, and then?—
A sound fills the room.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
Fast and strong and unmistakable. A heartbeat. Tiny and perfect.
My baby’s heartbeat.
“There we are,” Dr. Petrov says softly, and there’s warmth in his voice. Wonder, even. “Approximately eight weeks gestation, by the size and development. Strong heartbeat—around 170 beats per minute, which is perfectly normal for this stage. Congratulations, Mrs. Volkov. You’re pregnant.”
The words seem to echo in the silent room. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.
I finally force myself to look at Dimitri.
He’s frozen. Completely still. He’s staring at the ultrasound screen with an expression I can’t read. His face has gone pale, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping. Those gray eyes are fixed on that tiny flickering shape on the screen—the baby, our—no, my—no, Alexei’s?—
Oh God. OhGod.
“Mr. Volkov?” Dr. Petrov ventures. “Are you?—”
“Get out.”
