“Did you get a new phone? What number is this? Is everything okay?” my sister asks.
“No,” I growl as I find the door to the closet and thrust it open, “You won’t believe what this asshole has done!”
After venting to my sister and father and rummaging through the surprisingly full closet of new designer clothes in my sizes, I begrudgingly pull on a red and white polka dot spaghetti-strapped summer dress with a flared skirt, a pair of white sandals, and break open my new makeup and hair brush.
My sister and father have done little to improve my mood. Instead of taking my side, they thought it was sweet that Kirill had done the research to find out my size and favorite makeup brand, and bought so much for me. At this, I had to begrudgingly accept that Kirill at least bought me clothes and accessories that I like and find flattering.
As for my involuntary incarceration, my father even said that while it might be uncomfortable, it was now a necessity. Everyone in the New York underground now knew I was thePakhan’swife. Valya said little to support my feelings as well, but they did agree to come along with the movers once they have my things packed into the truck.
Once I’m ready, I fling open the bedroom suite door and find Yana calmly waiting for me.
“ThePakhanhas insisted you take the elevator until the baby is delivered,” Yana explains as she leads me to the elevator, “He doesn’t want to risk you falling. But after breakfast I’ll show you where the stairs are all the same. Just in case there is an emergency.”
I say nothing as Yana gestures toward the open elevator doors, my arms crossed in growing frustration.
“Any other rules I need to know about?” I mutter as the elevator takes us downstairs.
“Not that I am aware of, but that is a question better left for Mr. Pavlovich to answer,” Yana replies as the elevator doors open to the first floor.
Though the mansion was empty the night before, it certainly isn’t now. My eyes widen as I see several men and women in black suits going this way and that through the main hall, all of them either talking on phones or looking as if they are on some sacred mission.
“Who are all these people?” I ask as Yana leads me to the kitchen.
“Faithful followers of thePakhan,”Yana replies. “Security, techies, go-fors.”
“If they are all here, who is with Kirill?” I ask.
“Edik,” Yana replies.
I raise a curious brow.
“That’s all?”
Again, another almost smile touches Yana’s lips.
“Edik is enough,” she answers, a strange look of admiration glimmering in her eyes.
“Ah! Mrs. Pavlovich!” A deep, cheery voice exclaims as Yana and I enter the massive white marble and stainless steel kitchen.
At the enormous restaurant-grade stove stands a middle-aged man with a dark mustache wearing a white chef’s coat. He claps his hands together and smiles at me as if I’m a long lost friend. It’s the first happy face I’ve seen all day, and I can’t help but smile as I shake the excited man’s hand.
“Call me, Annika, please,” I insist as the chef eagerly kisses the top of my hand and shakes it. “And you are?”
“Antov Bakulin, chef extraordinaire, at your service,” the man answers happily, his brown eyes soft and warm. “You may call me Antov, or Chef, but like you, I prefer no formal monikers. I was so excited to hear that you and your little one would be joining our home. I love cooking for pregnant women. It gives me an opportunity to be creative with my skills.”
My brows fly up in surprise, then I suddenly recall that Yana had also mentioned the baby. I look to her and ask, “Does everyone know I’m pregnant? I thought we were to keep that a secret.”
“Everyone who works for Mr. Pavlovich is aware of your situation,” Yana replies. “They needed to know that they’re not just protecting you, but the next heir to the Pavlovich legacy.”
Yana then leans close, and in a surprisingly gentle voice added, “Do not worry. The outside world knows nothing, and they won’t until Mr. Pavlovich is ready for them to know. We are all used to keeping secrets here.”
I’m not sure whether to feel worried or relieved at this, but I can give it much thought, my stomach grumbles loudly.
“I believe that is my cue,” Antov says, going back to the main cooking area of the kitchen.
“What can I make you? An omelette? Blinis? Synriki? A kasha, perhaps?”
Although I had promised myself not to eat, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I can make at least one decision on my own, my stomach grumbles again at the list of delicious foods. I am pregnant, after all. Eating for two instead of myself, and what kind of mother would I be if I refused to feed my own baby out of stubbornness?
