It’s invasive and humiliating. I’m being treated not as a person, but a vessel.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Volkov?” Dr. Petrov asks, taking my blood pressure.
“Peachy,” I lie, because Dimitri is right there and I can’t admit how miserable I am without it becoming another thing he tries to control.
“Any cramping? Spotting?” he asks, making a pleased noise at my reading. 120/80. Perfect.
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Some.” Understatement of the fucking century.
“Are you keeping food down?”
I hesitate, and that’s all the answer Dimitri needs.
“She threw up breakfast again,” he interjects, his voice clipped. “And barely touched dinner last night.”
Dr. Petrov gives me a sympathetic look. “Morning sickness can be quite severe in the first trimester. It’s normal, though unpleasant. Mrs. Volkov, have you tried eating smaller, more frequent meals? Bland foods? Ginger tea?”
“Yes,” I say quietly, thinking of the things Anya has snuck to me. I wish I could say they are doing something. “Nothing helps much.”
“Hmm.” He makes a note. “If it gets worse, we may need to consider medication. For now, just do your best to stay hydrated. The baby is getting what it needs even if you’re uncomfortable.”
The baby. It’s alwaysthe baby. Never me. Never howI’mfeeling or whatIneed.
Just the baby.
Dimitri steps forward, his presence overwhelming. “What about weight? She’s lost more since last week.”
Dr. Petrov nods. “A few pounds, yes. It’s common with severe morning sickness, but as long as she’s staying hydrated and the baby is developing properly, it’s not cause for immediate concern.” Dr. Petrov pulls out the portable ultrasound. “Shall we check on the little one?”
I want to say no, even though I also desperately want to see the baby, but Dimitri is already nodding, and Dr. Petrov is alreadysetting up the machine. It’s like I don’t even exist when it comes to my own healthcare.
But I guess when it comes to the baby, I technically don’t exist.
I dutifully lift my shirt and Dr. Petrov applies the cold gel. The wand presses against my skin, searching, and then the image appears on the screen.
The baby. It’s bigger than last time and more defined. I can see the shape of a head, tiny limbs, and the flickering of that impossibly fast heartbeat. I let out a soft gasp. Seeing the baby never gets old.
“There we are,” Dr. Petrov says warmly. “About nine weeks now. Everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat, good growth. See here.” He points to the screen. “You can just start to make out the features. In a few more weeks, we’ll be able to see even more detail.”
I stare at the screen, and despite everything—despite the fear and anger and resentment—something inside me softens. That’smybaby. Alexei’s baby. Growing and developing and completely oblivious to the chaos surrounding its existence.
I glance at Dimitri, expecting his usual stone-faced expression.
But he’s not stone-faced. He’s staring at the screen with something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Wonder, maybe. Or longing. His jaw is slack, his posture less rigid. For just a moment, he looks almost... vulnerable.
Like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing in the world.
Then he notices me watching, and his expression hardens. The walls slam up as he turns away.
“Everything else looks good,” Dr. Petrov says, wiping the gel off my stomach. "Keep trying to eat, stay hydrated, and rest when you can. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. And the day after. And the fucking day after that.
I’ll be subjected to this every fucking day until the baby gets here. And Dimitri will watch every second.
