The phone call from Elena shatters my world in three words. “She’s collapsed in the garden!”
I’m already moving before my brain fully processes the information, my chair crashing backward as I bolt from my office.
The drive to the compound takes twelve minutes that feel like twelve hours.
My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white, and I barely register the traffic lights I run or the cars I cut off.
The only thought pounding through my skull is“Please let her be okay, please let them both be okay.”
I screech to a stop in front of the mansion and sprint through the entrance. Elena meets me in the foyer, her face pale and tear-streaked.
“Where is she?” The words come out as a growl.
“The medical suite. The doctor is with her now.” Elena’s voice shakes. “There was so much blood, Mr. Artyomov. I found her in the garden and?—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest. I take the stairs three at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs. The medical suite I installed weeks ago suddenly feels like the best decision I’ve ever made, even as terror claws at my throat.
The OB GYN doctor I hired to remain on call just for Sopia looks up when I burst through the door.
Her expression is grave, and my stomach drops to my feet.
But then I see Sophia on the examination table, conscious and crying, and relief floods through me so intensely I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright.
“Mikhail.” Her voice breaks on my name, and I’m at her side in an instant.
I gather her into my arms, careful of the IV line running into her hand.
She’s trembling, her face buried against my chest, and I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt.
My own eyes burn as I hold her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other rests protectively over her stomach.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you both. You’re safe now.”
The doc clears her throat, and I reluctantly pull back enough to look at her.
She’s in her fifties, with steel-gray hair and kind eyes that have seen too much suffering.
Right now, those eyes are filled with concern that makes my blood run cold.
“Mr. Artyomov, we need to talk about your wife’s condition.”
I nod, my jaw clenched so tightly it aches. Sophia’s hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine with desperate strength.
“Mrs. Artyomov has been experiencing severe pregnancy complications for several weeks now.” Her voice is professional but gentle. “Cramping, spotting, abdominal pain. The bleeding today was significant enough to cause her to lose consciousness.”
Several weeks. The words echo in my mind, and I turn to look at Sophia. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed and filled with guilt.
“You’ve been hiding this from me?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “For weeks?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “You were already dealing with so much, and I thought I could handle it, and I’m so sorry, Mikhail. I’m so sorry.”
The apology breaks something in my chest.
She’s been suffering alone, terrified and in pain, because she thought she needed to protect me.
Because my overprotective behavior made her feel like she couldn’t come to me with her fears.
“The baby?” I force the question past the lump in my throat.
