Chapter 20
HANNAH
The morning starts the same way every morning starts now—with nausea rolling through me like a tide I can't escape.
I force myself to sit up slowly, one hand pressed to my mouth, breathing through the worst of it. The ginger tea Maria left on my nightstand last night has gone cold, but I sip it anyway, desperate for anything that might settle my rebellious stomach.
Morning sickness seems to have turned into morning and evening.
Yay me.
Eleven weeks. I'm eleven weeks pregnant by my estimation and my body is making absolutely sure I can't forget it for even a moment. I remember hearing it was worse in the first trimester. I would love to Google that information, but I don’t have access to the outside world.
It’s a reminder that although I appear to be free, I’m not. Not really.
I managed to avoid Dante last night—he left early this morning for some business trip he wouldn't explain, taking Radimir with him. The relief I felt at his absence was immediate and shameful.
I hate the man I love.
I go into the bathroom to begin my new super fun ritual of puking my brains out. I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some color back into my cheeks. And then I wait.
My stomach is a little queasy, but I don’t feel like I’m going to puke.
“Hallelujah,” I murmur.
Thank goodness for small miracles.
Mila will be up soon, expecting breakfast and stories and all the normal routines we've built together. I need to pull myself together and be the steady presence she's come to depend on.
I dress carefully, choosing loose clothes that hide my slightly thickening waist, and head for the door. I head for the stairs, thinking about what we might do for the day.
Lightheadedness washes over me like a sneaker wave pulling me under. The walls blur, the floor seems to rise up to meet me. I reach for the banister at the top of the stairs with fingers that feel like they belong to someone else.
I miss the lifeline.
The fall happens in slow motion and too fast all at once. I'm tumbling, the stairs hard against my shoulders, my hip, my head. Panic floods through me—not for myself, but for the tiny life inside me that I've been too afraid to acknowledge.
The baby. Oh God, the baby.
I try to protect my stomach, curling around it instinctively as I fall. Pain explodes through my skull as my head connects with something hard—a step, the banister, I can't tell. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
Then I'm at the bottom, sprawled on marble that's as cold and hard as Dante's world. I can't breathe. I can't think past the terror that I might have just killed my unborn child. And oh shit, I hurt everywhere. I don’t know where the pain begins and ends.
"Miss Hannah!"
I fade. Letting the darkness and pain pull me into a foggy place where pain doesn’t exist.
I vaguely hear footsteps running toward me. Voices shouting in Russian I don't understand surround me. Hands on me, gentle but urgent, checking for injuries.
"The baby," I whisper as hands lift me onto a gurney. "Please, check the baby."
"Miss, what baby? Are you—"
"I'm pregnant." The words tumble out, desperate. "About eleven weeks. Please, I fell down the stairs, I need to know if—"
"Okay, okay." The nurse's voice shifts to calm professionalism. "We'll check. Try to stay still."
The drive to the hospital is a blur of pain and panic. Alexei sits beside me, pressing a towel to the cut on my head, his expression troubled.
"You're pregnant?" he asks quietly, low enough that the driver won't hear.
I close my eyes. The secret I've been carrying for weeks is finally out—to the worst possible person. "Yes."
"How long have you known?"
"Since before he brought me to the estate."
Alexei is silent for a long moment. "Does Dante know?"
"No." I grab his arm, panic cutting through the pain. "And you can't tell him. Promise me, Alexei. Promise me you won't say anything."
"Hannah, he has a right—"
"Promise me!" My voice cracks. "I'll tell him myself. When I'm ready. But it has to come from me, not—please. I'm begging you."
His jaw tightens, and I can see him wrestling with competing loyalties. Dante is his brother in everything but blood. Keeping this secret goes against everything he believes in.
"I won't volunteer the information," he finally says. "But if he asks me directly, I won't lie to him."
"That's all I'm asking."
The hospital is a blur of bright lights and urgent voices. They whisk me away from Alexei, into an exam room where a doctor with kind eyes asks questions I answer on autopilot.
"The baby," I keep saying. "Please, I need to know about the baby."
"We're going to check right now." She's setting up an ultrasound machine, her movements efficient and calm. "Try to relax. Stress isn't good for either of you."
Relax. Right. I'm being held captive by the father of my unborn child, I just fell down a flight of stairs, and any minute now Dante might burst through that door and discover the secret I've been keeping for weeks.
Relaxation isn't really in the cards.
The ultrasound gel is cold against my belly. The doctor moves the wand with practiced pressure, her eyes on the screen.
The silence stretches. I can't breathe. Can't think past the terror that I've killed my baby through my own carelessness.
Then I hear it.
Fast, fierce, impossibly loud—a heartbeat that doesn't belong to me.
"There we go," the doctor says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Strong heartbeat, measuring right on track. Your baby is just fine, Hannah."
The relief is so intense I burst into tears.
"I thought—when I fell—"
"Babies are remarkably resilient." She turns the screen so I can see. "See that flicker? That's your little one, perfectly healthy."
I stare at the image—the tiny blob that looks nothing like a baby but somehow is one. That's my child. Our child.
"Is it—are they—" The words stick in my throat.
"Strong heartbeat, measuring right on track for eleven weeks gestation. Everything looks good, Hannah. Now that we have that out of the way, let’s take a look at the rest of you.”
The relief is so intense it makes me lightheaded all over again. I press my hands to my face, trying to hold myself together, but I'm coming apart at the seams.
"I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready. But I thought—”
"Few people are," the doctor says with a laugh. "But ready or not, you're going to be a mother in about thirty weeks."
"Does the father know?" the doctor asks while she runs hands over my arms.
"It's complicated."
"It always is."
After being wheeled for a CT scan and then placed back in the room to wait for results, I close my eyes and try to process everything.
Alexei bursts into the room, eyes wild as he looks me over.
"Well?" he demands.
“I’m fine. Maybe a concussion. I’ll have a few stitches in my head.”
He closes his eyes briefly, and I see relief war with something else on his face. Concern, maybe. Or judgment.
"Hannah," he starts.
"Don't."
"You have to tell him."
"I will." When, I'm not sure. How, I have no idea. But eventually, I'll have to. "Just not yet."
"He's going to find out eventually. Better it comes from you than—"
"Please, Alexei. I need to do this my way, in my own time."
He stares at me and look like he’s the one that’s going to be sick. "He's my brother. Not by blood, but by choice. I don't like keeping secrets from him."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm just asking you not to volunteer information that's mine to share."
"And if he asks me directly?"
"Then you tell him the truth." I can live with that. "But until he asks, please. Let me handle this."
Alexei's phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. "Bogdan. Probably wondering where we are."
"Don't—"
"I'll tell him you had a minor accident, nothing serious. Which is technically true." His gray eyes pin me in place. "But Hannah? You can't hide a pregnancy forever. Especially not from someone like Dante."