What if it’s a girl?
What if she has his eyes?
What if she hates me?
My fingers twitch. I smear red across the paper accidentally. It looks like blood.
“Oops,” Alya says. “That one died.”
I nod faintly. “So dead.”
What if Konstantin doesn’t want it?
What if he says this breaks the deal? That one year as his fake wife doesn’t come with a lifetime subscription to his DNA?
What if he tells me to fix it?
What if—God—what if hewantsit?
What if I want it?
No. No. I’m not doing this.
I reach for more water. My hand shakes again.
Alya pauses. “You okay?”
“Just… thirsty.”
“You’re being weird.”
Mariya quietly sets down her tea, walks over, and rests a cool hand on my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything. Just lets her presence settle like a weight I didn’t know I needed.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re pale,” she says softly. “And you’re painting flowers like a woman being chased by wolves.”
I let out a strangled laugh.
If only she knew.
“Papa would say your butterflies look like they’ve been shot,” Alya adds proudly.
“Great,” I mutter. “Nothing says nurturing maternal energy like a war-torn butterfly massacre.”
Alya giggles. “I’m gonna make mine poop glitter.”
Of course she is.
The world swims for a second. The sun slants across the patio tiles. I close my eyes, just briefly, and all I can see is that hallway again—Katya’s voice, Yelena’s razor-sharp whisper.
No one can know. Especially not Konstantin.
Alya brushes against me, dragging her pinky through the sky-blue paint on my tray.
“Are you gonna name your butterfly?” she asks.
My eyes fly open.
