Chapter 43
Mary
Iwake up to nothing.
Not Anton’s arm around my waist. Not his breath against my neck. Not the rumble of his voice pulling me out of sleep with some command disguised as a request.
Just silence.
And the pillow that still smells like him.
I reach for my phone before I even open my eyes. Force of habit. Muscle memory from two days of checking, hoping, praying for something—anything—from a number I won’t recognize.
6:47 AM. Screen blank except for notifications I don’t care about.
No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
Forty-eight hours. He’s been gone forty-eight hours.
One thousand one hundred and fifty-two times I’ve checked this phone. Yes, I counted. Because what else am I supposed to do at 3 AM when my brain won’t shut off and my stomach is staging a rebellion?
I roll onto his side of the bed. Press my face into his pillow. Inhale.
Cedar. Gunpowder. That expensive cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear but definitely does. And underneath it all—him. Just… him.
My heart hurts.
I curl around the pillow like it’s a living thing. Like if I hold it tight enough, he’ll materialize. Like I can trade my rib cage for his presence.
The tears come then. Hot. Silent. The kind that don’t make you feel better, just emptier.
I hate this.
I hate that I miss him so much my bones ache. I hate that every sound makes me think he’s coming through the door. I hate that I keep replaying the way he looked at me before he left—jaw tight, eyes dark, like he was memorizing my face in case he never saw it again.
I hate that I know what that look means now.
It means I might not come back.
It means this could be the last time.
It means I love you, but I’m walking into a fight I might not win.
And I let him go anyway.
Because what was I supposed to do? Chain him to the bed? Beg him to stay while Igor planned whatever revenge fantasy he’s been building for a month?
No.
I let him walk out that door because I love him. Because keeping him here means keeping us in danger. Because sometimes love looks like opening your hand even when every cell in your body is screaming to hold on.
But God, it hurts.
I sit up slowly. The room spins. My stomach lurches.
Here we go again.
I make it to the bathroom just in time. Nothing comes up because there’s nothing left. I’ve been empty since yesterday afternoon. But my body doesn’t care. It heaves anyway, punishing me for daring to exist.
When it finally stops, I slump against the wall. Tile cold against my back. Hair stuck to my face.
This is my life now. Pregnant. Alone. Vomiting nothing into a toilet while the father of my baby is somewhere in Russia, doing God knows what with God knows who trying to kill him.
I rinse my mouth. Brush my teeth. Avoid looking at myself in the mirror because I already know what I’ll see: puffy eyes, pale skin, the kind of exhaustion that lives in your bones.
Back in the bedroom, I stand at the window. Stare at the city waking up below. Cars moving. People walking. The world spinning like nothing’s wrong.
Like my entire universe hasn’t collapsed into a two-week countdown.
My hand moves to my belly. Flat still. Ten weeks. Too early to show. Too early to feel anything.
But it’s there. Growing. Proof that something good came out of all this chaos.
“Your dad’s an idiot,” I whisper to the place where our baby is becoming real. “A brave, loyal, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he has to fix everything alone.”
A car door slams outside. My heart stops.
I press closer to the window. Scan the street.
Not him. Just some guy in a suit heading to work.
I sag against the glass. Stupid. Of course it’s not him. It’s only been two days. He said two weeks. I have twelve more days of this.
Twelve more days of checking my phone every five minutes. Twelve more days of jumping at every sound. Twelve more days of going to bed alone and waking up to nothing.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.
And I hate that I’m this person now. The one who can’t function without a man. The one whose world stops spinning when he’s not there.
I dated Evan for six years. Six. Years.
And I don’t remember ever feeling this way when he traveled for work. Never counted the hours. Never checked my phone every five minutes. Never curled up around his pillow because I missed him so much my chest hurt.
I was fine. Relieved, even. His absence meant space. Meant I didn’t have to perform. Didn’t have to be the girlfriend he kept around but never really saw.
I was alone even when he was there.
But this is different.
This isn’t some ex-boyfriend I’m mourning. This isn’t Evan’s half-hearted texts.
This is Anton. Who looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. Who puts his hand on my stomach like he’s protecting something sacred. Who told me he loves me in Russian first because he was too scared to say it in English.
This is the first time I’ve ever been loved back.
Really loved. Not tolerated. Not settled for. Not kept around until something better comes along.
Loved. Wanted. Chosen.
And that’s what makes this unbearable.
Because I finally know what it feels like to be someone’s first choice. To be the person they come home to. To be loved so completely that even two weeks feels like drowning.
I spent my whole life being less than. Less interesting. Less pretty. Less worth staying for.
And now I’m more. More than I thought I could be. More than anyone ever saw in me.
And he’s the one who made me believe it.
My phone buzzes.
I lunge for it so fast I almost trip over the sheets.
Dima: Eat something.
Not Anton. Of course not Anton.
I stare at the text. Two words. Bossy. Direct. Peak Dima.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I should respond. Should say okay or fine or literally anything.
Instead, I set the phone down. Crawl back into bed. Pull Anton’s pillow against my chest.
I miss Gordo.
The thought hits me sideways. Stupid. Random. But there it is.
Gordo, with his judgmental stare and his bread-loaf body, and the way he used to sit on my chest at 6 AM, demanding breakfast.
But Essie took him back two weeks ago. Right after the clinic. Right when I moved into the penthouse permanently.
“He’s my cat,” she’d said. Not mean. Just factual. “I missed him.”
I didn’t argue. Gordo was never really mine anyway. Just borrowed. Like everything else in my old life.
But I miss him now. Miss having something warm and alive that didn’t talk back or ask me how I’m feeling or look at me like I’m about to shatter.
I close my eyes. Try to picture Anton’s face. The way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking. The way his eyes go dark when he’s about to kiss me. The way he says my name—Mary—like it’s a complete sentence.
My phone rings.
I grab it without checking. “Anton?”
“Not quite, sugar tits.”
Jasper.
I exhale. Relief and disappointment tangled together. “Hey.”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me. You sound like death.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Did you eat?”
“Dima already asked.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I don’t respond.
Jasper sighs. “Mary…”
“I can’t keep anything down, Jas. I try. It just comes back up.”
“Have you tried crackers? Ginger ale? Literally anything bland?”
“Yes. All of it. None of it works.”
Silence on his end. Then: “I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Not asking.” His voice softens. “How’s Grandma?”
My throat tightens. “She’s okay. Asking to see me.”
“Does she know?”
“About Anton leaving? No.” I press my hand to my belly. “About the baby? Also no.”
“When are you going to tell her?”
“When he comes back.”
“Mary—”
“I can’t, Jas. If I tell her now, she’ll worry. She’ll want to come here. And I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I can’t protect her if she’s here. And I can’t tell her the truth about what Anton does. So I’m just… lying. Until he comes home.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
The words hit like a fist.
“He will,” I whisper.
“Okay.” Jasper doesn’t push. “I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t move.”
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
He hangs up.
I lie there. Staring at the ceiling. Counting the seconds until someone shows up and makes me pretend I’m okay.
Because I’m not okay.
I’m forty-eight hours into a two-week nightmare.
And I have no idea how I’m going to survive the rest.