She hesitates, then nods and turns back toward the room like she’s relieved to get out of my presence. Poor girl had no idea what she was walking into.
I stay in the hallway for a while longer, staring at the closed door, as the angry thoughts start to fester. She kept it from me. Something so big and so important. How long has she known?Doesshe even know? Maybe it’s just as much a shock to her as it is to me.
Do I even have a right to be angry with her if she did know? After all, it’s her body. She’s not my property. It’s her choice what she does and doesn’t tell me. Then again, if she did know she’s pregnant, she’s purposely put herself and our child in danger by leaving the penthouse.
Our baby.
My baby.
My Alina.
I hate the possessive instinct so much I almost laugh at myself. I don’t own her, I remind myself. This wedding is just a farce to keep her safe. No matter how many times I’ve had her, no matter how many times she’s slept in my bed, she isn’t mine to keep.
The pressure in my chest tightens again, and this time it’s not anger. It’s something heavier. Grief, maybe. The realization that having a child in the chaos of my life is a horrible idea.
One final thought occurs before I can make myself go in to see her. Someone knew exactly where Alina would be. They were going to use her as leverage to draw me out.
That ambush wasn’t random. It was too coordinated. Too bold. It happened in the middle of the day on a fairly popular street. She met her friend at a place they’ve been to many times before. Who would know that?
I exhale slowly through my nose and finally step into the room, unsure of what I’m going to say or even if I can control my anger at all.
She looks so small in the hospital bed, more fragile than I’ve ever seen her before. The lighting is harsh and unforgiving, bleaching her skin paler than usual. There’s a faint bruise blooming on her arm where the man grabbed her. It’s already purple at the edges. I can’t stop my eyes from going to it.
My hands itch with the need to break something.
She turns her head slowly when she senses me, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. She blinks slowly, then focuses.
“Andrei?” she asks quietly, like she’s not sure I’m really here.
Hearing my name from her like that feels wrong. It’s too intimate, especially in the wake of the pregnancy news. She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t trust me enough to share the news of our baby with me.
I stop beside the bed and look down at her without letting my face give me away. She watches me closely, her eyes so tired.
“You need to get some rest,” I tell her carefully. “You went through a significant amount of trauma today.”
She only nods and swallows hard, contorting her face when she does.
“Do you need water?” I ask. “I can call for a nurse.”
“I’m okay,” she says in the same small voice. “Just stay with me for a while, okay?”
“Of course,” I say, sitting in a reclining chair next to her and grabbing her hand. “We should probably talk about the baby.”
She assesses me without an ounce of surprise. She must have read the news on my face the second I walked in the door. Instead, she just nods slowly and then looks back up at the ceiling.
“What would you like to discuss?” she answers, almost coldly.
I don’t answer right away because if I open my mouth, I don’t trust what will come out. Accusation. Relief. Something ugly. Something needy. Something I’d regret.
“I…” I falter, not even sure where to begin.
Her eyes close for a brief moment, like she’s bracing herself. When they open again, there’s a flicker of something there. Not fear, exactly. Something closer to resignation.
“I didn’t—” she starts.
“Stop,” I cut in, too quickly.
The word comes out colder than I meant it to. Hurt flashes across her face, quick and contained. She turns her eyes away from me and stares at the sheet instead, fingers tightening around the edge.
