56
Bella
“You sure this doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard not to fall apart?”
Anya tilts her head, holding up the hand mirror like it’s a verdict. “You look… presentable.”
“So, desperate but color-coordinated. Got it.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just smooths the fabric of the lavender wrap dress she made me wear like she’s dressing a broken doll. It’s soft and floaty and fits like it was custom-made to trap feelings. There’s a silk ribbon in my hair, too, tied in a bow at the back. Subtle. Feminine. A lie wrapped in lavender.
I look like a woman who has her shit together.
I am not that woman.
I am, instead, a woman who is officially, medically, terrifyingly pregnant.
“Master Belov has returned,” Anya says, like she’s announcing the arrival of royalty. Or doom. Possibly both.
“Okay. Great. That’s perfect,” I mutter to no one.
My voice sounds like it’s been wrung out and left to dry on a wire hanger. Exactly how I feel.
Naturally. Because the universe likes to pile on. Because fate has a flair for drama. Because right on cue, like my life is a mafia-themed soap opera, the man I most do not want to deal with while navigating potential motherhood is downstairs.
Anya moves toward me with a gentleness that makes me want to flinch. “May I?” she asks, already crouching beside the bed.
I nod, bracing myself.
She lifts the edge of the lavender dress and carefully peels back the soft fabric from my upper thigh. The stitches are still there—small, tight, the kind of handiwork that says Dr. Katya doesn’t mess around. The scar looks like a thin line drawn by a scalpel and regret.
“It’s healing well,” Anya says, her fingertips hovering just above the skin, not touching. “There’s still swelling, but the inflammation’s gone down.”
I hum, noncommittal, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might have answers.
I want to say thank you. I want to say something normal. But all I can think is:
This is the least of it.
The stitched-up wreckage on my thigh? Manageable. Visible. Fixable.
It’s the hidden damage that’s spiraling.
Inside me, there’s something growing. Something no one’s supposed to know about.
Yelena’s voice rings again in my head—clipped, cold, surgical:
“No one can know. Not yet. Especially not Konstantin.”
And now—now I know.
“You want me to get you some water, Mrs. Belov?” Anya’s voice floats over, too gentle, too considerate, which makes me suspicious.
She’s hovering a little too close now. Her eyes flick to my face, then my hands, like she’s scanning for vitals. It’s the look nurses give before someone faints at a blood drive. The way her brows pinch slightly, the way her body stays half-turned like she’s ready to catch me—
Oh.
I must look like I’m about to pass out.
