Chapter 22 - Anoushka
My heart pounds relentlessly in my chest as I sit nervously in the doctor's waiting room, fidgeting with my hands. Nikolai, showing no signs of anxiety, sits calmly beside me as he flicks through his e-mails, his stoic demeanor only adding to my growing unease.
The longer I’ve let this secret fester, the more in love I’ve fallen with this child blossoming inside me. I gently caress my still-flat belly, imagining how big it could grow.
If the baby is all right, that is.
The sterile environment of the doctor's office seems to amplify every sound, from the faint ticking of the clock on the wall to the shuffling of papers at the reception desk. The smell of disinfectant hangs heavy in the air, almost suffocating me with its intensity. I can hear muffled voices from other patients behind closed doors, their conversations impossible to decipher but somehow increasing my own anxiety.
This is just a routine appointment. Nothing to be afraid of. Only except for the other life I carry.
I put in a silent prayer, hoping all goes well for myself and the little one.
"Anoushka Orlov?" a nurse calls out, her voice cutting through the silence of the waiting room.
My pulse quickens, and I stand up immediately, feeling my excitement building. Nikolai rises as well, his expression unreadable. I glance at him, trying to gauge his emotions, but he gives nothing away. "Ready?" I ask quietly, my voice wavering slightly.
"Let's go," he replies, his tone impassive. He places a hand on my lower back, guiding me forward.
We follow the nurse down a series of stark-white hallways with bright white lights. As we enter the examination room, I eagerly greet the doctor, who smiles warmly in return. The room is small, dominated by a bed with an ultrasound machine beside it.
“Your file says you’re pregnant?” She looks up inquiringly from the sheet I filled out at the reception.
I nod. “Seven weeks now, I believe,” I whisper with a trembling voice.
“And you haven’t had an ultrasound yet?” she asks.
“No,” I shake my head. “Just one over-the-counter at-home test.”
“Sometimes,” the doctor frowns, “there are false positives.”
A crush of disappointment overwhelms me, while beside me, I hear Nikolai’s booming voice as he bursts out with a borderline enthusiastic, “Really?”
Why the hell does he sound relieved? Suddenly, I feel like it was a mistake coming here with him.
“It’s quite rare,” the doctor clarifies. “A false positive. In all likelihood, you are pregnant. Please lie down on the bed, Mrs. Zolotov," the doctor instructs, gesturing toward the crisp white sheets. I oblige, feeling a shiver run down my spine as the cold surface meets my skin. Nikolai stands beside me, his face still betraying no emotion. He takes my hand almost begrudgingly, as if it's more of a chore than something he genuinely wants to do.
"All right, let's get started," the doctor says, picking up a tube of clear gel. She pulls up my shirt and squeezes some onto my exposed belly, and I gasp involuntarily at the cold sensation. I look over at Nikolai, hoping for some sort of reassurance or comfort, but he remains distant, his gaze focused on the ultrasound screen.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, biting my lip nervously and staring at the doctor. I squeeze Nikolai’s hand for support, but he hardly notices. I hate how detached he seems, how little interest he appears to have in this life-altering moment when I’m so stressed out, mulling over possibilities.
"Everything's fine, Anoushka," the doctor reassures me, her voice gentle. "I'm just looking for the baby's heartbeat."
“So there is a baby!” I gasp, tears welling in my eyes. The doctor nods warmly, while Nikolai doesn't say a word. He stands there, cold and unresponsive, as if he's miles away from me both physically and emotionally. I squeeze his hand, trying to bridge the gap between us with a look, but he barely acknowledges my touch.
I clench my spare hand into a fist, my nails digging into my palm as I try to quell my mounting frustration. I thought Nikolai would be overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a father.
But that’s not the case.
I feel a tinge of sadness in the midst of what is the happiest moment of my life. I wish this had gone untainted.
I wish I had come for this appointment alone.
"Ah, there it is," the doctor exclaims, her excitement palpable as she points at the screen. There, I see it, the tiniest little thing, smaller than the smallest thumb even. "You're seven weeks along, Mrs. Zolotov, and everything seems to be progressing wonderfully."
I can't help but let out a relieved sob, tears streaming down my face as the weight of worry lifts from my shoulders. This tiny life inside me is healthy and growing, and that alone brings me overwhelming happiness.
"Thank you, Doctor," I choke out, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.
Nikolai finally looks at me, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since we entered this room. But instead of the warmth and affection I desperately long for, I'm met with a thin-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Where do we pay?" he asks, turning his attention back to the doctor.
"Uh, the reception desk on your way out, Mr. Zolotov," she replies, seemingly taken aback by his curt demeanor.
"All right," he says, releasing my hand without a second glance.
I watch him walk toward the door, my heart sinking even further. This was supposed to be a moment we shared together, one filled with love and excitement for our future. But all I feel now is a hollow emptiness where that love should be. Is this really how it's going to be—raising a child with a man who can't even bring himself to show the slightest bit of interest?
"Mrs. Zolotov?" the doctor calls, breaking me from my thoughts. "Please, take care of yourself and the baby. Schedule your next appointment at the reception desk for four weeks. My assistant will email you a diet sheet, prenatal vitamins, and a list of other medicines you can keep at hand by the end of the day. Any illness, even the slightest cold, and you come straight to me. Do not self-medicate."
"Thank you, Doctor," I repeat, forcing a smile as I slide off the bed, bid her goodbye, and follow Nikolai out of the room.
***
The moment we step outside the doctor's office, a gust of cold wind hits my face, but it does nothing to cool the anger simmering within me. We walk toward the car in silence—an oppressive, suffocating silence that feels heavier with each passing second.
Inside the car, Nikolai starts the engine and turns up the music, drowning out any possibility of conversation. My hands grip the sides of my seat, my knuckles turning white as I try to keep my emotions in check. But the more I try, the more they bubble beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.
The minute we’re home, I tell the guards to leave us alone and slam the door of the house shut, turning to him.
"Come with me to the living room," I finally snap, unable to take it anymore. "I need to talk to you."
Nikolai hesitates for a moment before nodding slightly. He glances at me with an unreadable expression and walks to the living room with me right at his heels.
There, he turns to me and asks, "What is it?"
"Was it really so hard for you to pretend to care about our child?" My voice trembles, barely concealing my anger. "You were so… detached, so distant. Why, Nikolai? Why can't you show any interest in our baby? Or is it that you don’t want it to be ours?"
My voice rises with each word I say, and Nikolai shakes his head as I say each word but remains silent. Still angry, I almost yell.
“What is it, Nikolai? Do you not want this child because if you don’t, let me tell you, we can get a divorce. I will raise this child alone if I must. But this child will only be born into an environment where he or she is shown the utmost love. If you can’t promise that, then you can’t be a part of our life,” I clutch my belly as a fierce protectiveness comes over me, threatening to raise any threat to the ground.
He clenches his jaw, and for a moment, I think he's going to explode in anger. But then, his gaze drops to my belly, and his voice comes out soft, wavering ever-so-slightly. "Anoushka, it's not that I don't care… I'm just… scared."
"Scared?" I echo, my anger momentarily forgotten as surprise takes its place. "But why?"
"Look at the world we live in!" he exclaims, his voice raw with emotion. "We're constantly surrounded by danger, by enemies who would do anything to hurt us—and now, to hurt our child. How can I protect a baby from all of this? My father was killed by the Bratva, Anoushka. By enemies in Russia. They tried to come for us, too. They’ve always come for us. I worry for my siblings, for you. But a baby? What if… something happens and I let it?"
Realization dawns on me as I stare at Nikolai, his vulnerability laid bare before me. For the first time today, I see past his stoic exterior to understand he wasn’t being cold; he was holding the fear at bay, trying not to let it consume him. In this moment, he is just like any other person—afraid and uncertain about what the future holds.
"None of us can predict the future, Nikolai," I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "But we can face it together. We'll protect our baby with everything we have."
“And what if we can’t?” he says ferociously, placing his hand on my belly as he looks down. I suddenly feel such relief, such love, to know that this man wants to protect the life I carry with everything he has. I reach down and hold his hand in place, gently massaging his fingers as he twines them through mine and his eyes shut close, taking in this moment.
“Is there truly anyone in the world,” I whisper. “Who would take on the wrath of the Zolotovs and the Orlovs? Look at us. We have danger all around, but we are fine. All my siblings, all yours—we live, Nikolai, despite it all. All my brothers have children. Ivan, Sergei, Damien, Vanya—they all have children. They’re safe. Why won’t ours be too?” I try to reason with his anxiety with facts.
He takes a deep breath before opening his eyes, meeting my gaze with renewed determination. "You're right. We'll do whatever it takes to keep our child safe. I got overwhelmed. This is an Orlov baby, with Zolotov blood in it after all," he bends down and speaks to my stomach. “For all we know, she would come out guns blazing.”
“She?” I giggle, suddenly excited at the thought of whether we would have a daughter or a son.
“If she’s anything like her mother,” Nikolai looks up with wet eyes, “then I know she’s going to be a fighter.”
“And if he’s anything like his father,” I grab Nikolai’s shoulders, pulling him up to his feet. “Then he’s going to be fiercely protective and loving. We make a good team, Nikolai. No matter what comes our way, we face it together, head-on.”
A small smile plays on his lips, the tension melting away from his features as he pulls me into a warm embrace. For the first time since we left the doctor’s office, I feel his arms around me—not as a shield against the world, but as a promise of love and protection.
“We do make a good team, Anoushka,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice rough with emotion. “I may not always show it, but I care deeply for you and our child. I will learn to be a father worthy of the child you carry.”
Tears gather in my eyes at his words, realizing just how much he’s willing to change and grow for us. “I have no doubt,” I whisper into his ear.
***
Later that night, Nikolai personally prepares my dinner according to the new dietary recommendation, triple washing the vegetables, ensuring I have a safe source of protein. He serves dinner in bed and insists I wake him if I feel sick or tired.
“You spoil me,” I mumble as he clears away the finished plates and gets into bed beside me.
“I believe I have to, considering you carry our child,” he says sweetly, kissing me on my forehead. He pushes an arm out behind me, and I cozy into the nook.
“What environment will we want our child to grow up in?” he muses. “Do we shelter and protect, or do we let them fail and learn?”
“Fail and learn,” I say, without skipping a beat.
Nikolai looks at me in surprise. “Really?” he asks. "But you… you were sheltered growing up, and you turned out so well.”
"Growing up, my parents tried to protect me from the world. Then, Boris did the same. They thought they were doing what was best for me, but it only made me feel trapped." As I look into his deep brown eyes, I see a flicker of understanding. "It wasn't until I got involved with your business, with you, that I truly started to grow and learn about life, about how it’s not so black and white. It's challenging, yes, but it's also exhilarating. It’s taught me to learn more about myself than I have in years."
"Really?" He seems surprised by my admission, but there's something else too—a hint of admiration.
"Absolutely. I don't want our child to grow up behind walls, never knowing the true strength they possess. I don’t want them growing up with biases, believing all they hear. For years, I was taught to believe that men like you are cruel. But now, I see that my biases held me back. I want our children to be brave, resilient, and compassionate, just like their father," I say with conviction, hoping to reassure him.
A small smile forms on his lips as he listens to my words. "You truly believe we can do this, don't you?"
"Without a doubt," I affirm. "We may not be able to control every aspect of our lives, but we can make choices that will help us build a better future for our child."
A moment of silence settles between us, the air thick with unsaid words, before Nikolai takes a deep breath and starts to open up. "My parents hated the Zolotovs—your family—with every fiber of their being," he admits, his voice pained. "They blamed them for everything that went wrong in their lives, and they tried to pass that hatred onto me."
I watch as his eyes cloud over with memories, and I can't help but feel my heart ache for him. "But you're not like them," I say softly, gently squeezing his hand. "You've shown me time and time again that you're different, that you don't hold the same prejudices they did."
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine for reassurance. "It's hard sometimes, you know? To escape the shadows of our past, to break free from the cycle of hatred and violence. But I don't want our child to grow up in that world, Anoushka. I want something better for them."
"Then let's give them that," I reply, my voice full of conviction. "We can teach them about love, understanding, and compassion so that they won't make the same mistakes our parents did. That we did."
A smile spreads across his face, and I can see the weight of his worries slowly lifting from his shoulders. "With you by my side, I believe that anything is possible," he says, his voice filled with gratitude.