She? Who is—
Pregnant?
Am I—?
Pregnant.
Preg. Nant.
The hallway tilts. I swear the cashmere rug beneath me actually gasps.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
54
Bella
The sunlight pours through the garden’s glass ceiling, turning Alya’s blonde pigtails to spun gold. We’re set up at a wrought-iron table, paint supplies spread across it like a kindergarten teacher’s nightmare. Bright spring flowers bloom around us in perfectly manicured beds.
I blink at the canvas in front of me, which does, indeed, look less like a butterfly and more like something that lost a bar fight.
“It looks like it’s melting,” she says helpfully. “Or pooping.”
Mariya snorts behind her cup of tea. The sound is so rare it actually startles me. She’s settled on the edge of the garden, orthopedic shoes planted in the grass, one hand resting on the giant bag of painting supplies Alya insisted we bring outside. Her bun’s already frizzing from humidity, and her watch beeps gently at the top of the hour. As always.
“Papa paints better than this,” Alya adds, tongue sticking out as she carefully outlines a butterfly wing in neon pink.
I raise an eyebrow. “Konstantin paints?”
She shrugs. “He drew a horse once on my homework. It was okay.”
Mariya laughs again.
I try to smile, but it barely forms. My fingers tremble around the paintbrush. I set it down carefully on the tray beside me before I ruin another butterfly.
Pregnant.
The word hums in the back of my skull like it’s been looped into the air molecules. I swear even the hydrangeas heard it. It keeps flickering in my brain like a broken lightbulb.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You didn’t even know. Yelena knows. Yelena knows, and she’s going to bury you alive under the herb garden.
“You’re doing that weird stare thing again,” Alya says, not looking up.
“What weird stare thing?”
“The kind you do before you say something sarcastic and sad.”
Mariya glances over. Her eyes narrow. She knows something’s off—I can feel it in the way she silently pushes a bottle of water toward me like I’m going to faint.
I chug it.
Butterflies blur together. The paint smells too strong. My stomach turns. Not from the lavender this time. From the raw, unfilteredwhat the fuck nowscreaming in my body.
I glance at Alya. Her hair is pulled back into a tight braid, glitter in her lashes, cheeks streaked with paint and sun. She’s humming under her breath. The same tune I caught Mariya humming last week. Some old lullaby I can’t pronounce.
My heart cracks.
What if I’m having a kid? Akid. Like her. Like this loud, hilarious, fragile human who trusts me to stay upright longenough to help paint wings and whisper stories and remind her that monsters don’t get her in the night.
