6. Lacey
6
LACEY
FOUR WEEKS LATER
I trace my fingers over the fading marks on my neck, barely visible now in the morning light filtering through the curtains. Vadim sleeps beside me, but there's a careful space between us—like an invisible wall neither of us dares to breach.
His breathing is steady, peaceful.
Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm asleep, his gray eyes filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty that matches the ache in my chest.
We're trying.
God, we're both trying so hard to move past that night on the stairs.
But the guilt lingers like a shadow—mine for pushing him to that edge, and his for giving me exactly what I demanded.
And the fear that we might do it again rears its ugly head each time we approach each other.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. My silk robe whispers against my skin as I pad to the bathroom, feeling oddly rough and tight for the last several days.
In the mirror, I examine the last traces of bruises. They're almost gone now, like the physical reminder of that night is trying to fade even if the emotional wounds are still raw.
I make my way down to my office, the hallways of Pankration oddly quiet in the early morning hours.
From my office window, I can see where they've cleared the trees behind the conservatory. The space looks naked, exposed. That path—the one Olga led me down—now sits under constant surveillance. Another reminder of how close I came to destroying everything.
My fingers trace over one of Irina's sketches, a cocktail dress with an innovative draping technique. I've been trying to figure out how to translate her vision into reality, but something about the construction keeps eluding me.
For three weeks, I've buried myself in Irina's final collection. Her sketches are scattered across my desk—beautiful dresses that will never see her finishing touches. Each time I look at them, I hear her laugh, see the triumphant look in her eyes in Paris right before all light faded from them.
The pain of her loss still feels fresh, even now.
As for Vadim, he's so busy tearing down Kirsan's empire piece by piece that I'm often asleep by the time he comes to bed.
We're both running from what happened that night, finding refuge in our work rather than facing the growing distance between us.
A wave of nausea roils my stomach, and I swallow it back. It's been like this for a few days now.
A knock at my door makes me jump. For a moment, I think it's Vadim. But when I look up, I see Lenka standing there, her weathered features holding their usual quiet dignity.
"Ms. Huang is here to see you," she says.
My heart leaps at Megan's name. After everything that's happened, the thought of seeing my sister feels like a lifeline being thrown to a drowning woman.
"Tell her I'll be right out," I say, gathering the sketches into a neat pile. My hands tremble slightly with anticipation.
After I returned to Pankration, Vadim caught me up on everything that has happened. Apparently, Megan has been staying at a safehouse in Monroe since the last time I saw her at the police station.
I learned that she's been working with him, while they come up with a strategy to expose Kirsan's operation through carefully crafted stories in the Seattle Voice. A twinge of guilt had run through me when I first learned it, mostly because I had been so opposed to the idea when she suggested it.
Above all, though, was the relief I felt in knowing that she's safe.
But knowing isn't the same as seeing.
I miss her infectious laugh, her quick wit, the way she can read my mood from the smallest change in expression. I miss having someone I can be completely honest with.
I feel a flutter of excitement in my stomach that has nothing to do with the morning nausea. For the first time in weeks, I feel something close to normal anticipation, unmarred by guilt or fear or uncertainty.
Just the simple joy of seeing my sister.
Megan waits in the sitting room, looking oddly at home despite the opulent surroundings. When she sees me, her eyes immediately go to my neck, seeing the shadows of the bruises. I resist the urge to adjust my collar.
I rush into Megan's arms, and she squeezes me back before I can even wrap my arms around her. Relief and happiness balloons in my chest, and cocoons me in a blanket of comfort I didn't realize I desperately needed.
"God, I missed you so much," I whisper into her shoulder.
"Me too, sis." Megan squeezes me tighter. "These past few weeks have been insane. I keep wanting to text you random memes but then remember I'm supposed to be maintaining radio silence."
We pull apart and I wipe at my eyes. "What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to stay at the safehouse."
"Well, I have this meeting with your scary Russian husband about the first real piece we're publishing." Megan's eyes sparkle with barely contained excitement. "And since I was coming by anyway, I figured I'd see my favorite sister."
"I'm your only sister."
"Details." She waves her hand dismissively. "I tried to convince your husband's hot blond friend to stop by Three Birds on the way here, but apparently he takes this whole security detail thing very seriously."
I can't help but grin at the mention of Demyon. "Oh? Hot blond friend?"
"Don't start." Megan's cheeks flush slightly. "He's just... aesthetically pleasing to look at. You know, in an objective way."
"Uh huh." I raise an eyebrow. "I'm sure you're speaking very objectively."
Megan's rolls her eyes, her lips curving up in a smirk. "Anyways, just apologizing in advance for not showing up with your favorite emotional support cupcakes from Three Birds."
"Honestly? I probably wouldn't be able to keep them down anyway." I lean back in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position.
"What's wrong?" Megan's brow furrows with concern. "Are you sick?"
"Just some nausea for the past couple days." I wave off her worry. "It comes and goes."
"You're probably working too hard." Megan gives me that look—the same one Laura used to give me when I'd pull all-nighters during high school.
"Maybe." I shrug, not wanting to talk about why I'm throwing myself into my work. "What's this first piece you're working on?"
"Oh!" Her eyes light up. "So I'm sure you know this, but it's about that massive rescue operation—two locations actually. One at the docks and another out in Tacoma. Vadim tells me that he's got firsthand accounts from several victims who were saved, and that he wants me to review them before I take them to the Voice."
I know exactly what rescue operation she's talking about—the one where Vadim saved me and Serena. The memories flood back: the shipping container, the screams from upstairs, Sayanaa's cruel smile.
But before I can say anything, a wave of nausea overtakes me, and my stomach lurches violently. Without warning, I double over and vomit all over the clean marble floors.
"Lacey!" Megan is instantly at my side, holding back my hair.
"I'm fine," I manage to say before another wave of nausea hits and I dry heave, my stomach muscles clenching painfully. Nothing comes up this time except bile.
Lenka appears beside me, her footsteps quick and purposeful on the marble floor. "Let me make you some tea, devushka ." She gestures to one of the staff. "Clean this up."
Megan helps me into a nearby armchair, her arm steady around my waist. The plush velvet feels cool against my burning skin.
"Must've been something I ate," I mumble, pressing my hand against my churning stomach. The nausea is starting to pass, leaving behind that hollow, shaky feeling that comes after being sick.
But Megan doesn't respond right away. When I look up at her, she's studying my face intently, like she's piecing together a puzzle. Her eyes drift from my hair to my face to my stomach, and then back to my eyes.
"Lacey..." She bites her lower lip once Lenka leaves to make some tea. "Have you and Vadim been using any protection?"
My cheeks burn hot as I avoid Megan's gaze. "I... we..."
"Lacey." Megan's voice carries that familiar tone—the same one she used when grilling me as a kid.
"No," I finally admit. "We haven't."
"Didn't you tell me you stopped taking birth control because you and Nathan were planning to start trying right after the wedding?" Megan's words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hadn't even thought about that.
"Oh God." My hand presses against my stomach. The nausea, the mood swings, the way my silk robe felt tight and rough around me lately...
"When was your last period?"
I try to think back, but everything's been such a blur since Paris. The days have bled together in a haze of work and guilt and...
"I can't be," I whisper. "It's impossible."
"Why? Because you've only had sex with him like what? A dozen times?"
Try several dozen. In his office. Against walls. On his desk. In the shower. On practically every surface we can find.
Before I can say anything to rebuke Megan, Lenka returns with a steaming cup of chamomile tea, and sets it carefully on the side table.
"Lenka?" Megan calls out before the housekeeper can leave. "Would you be able to get us a pregnancy test?"
Lenka's eyes widen slightly at Megan's request, and for a moment I see something flicker across her weathered features—concern mixed with what might be hope.
"Of course, dear." She glances at me, her gaze lingering on my face before dropping to where my hand still rests against my stomach. "I will send someone to the pharmacy right away."
"Thank you," I whisper, wrapping my hands around the warm teacup. The chamomile's gentle scent helps settle my churning stomach.
"Perhaps..." Lenka hesitates at the door, her hand resting on the frame. "Perhaps you would prefer to rest in your office while you wait? It would be more comfortable than sitting here."
The tenderness in her voice nearly breaks me. It reminds me so much of Mom—the way she'd fuss over me whenever I was sick, insisting I stay in bed while she brought me soup and tea.
"I'm okay here," I manage to say. "But thank you, Lenka."
She nods once, a small smile tugging at her lips, before disappearing into the hallway. Her footsteps fade away, leaving me alone with Megan and my racing thoughts.
The enormity of what we're waiting to confirm crashes over me like a wave. My fingers tighten around the teacup, seeking its warmth as an anchor.
"Hey." Megan reaches over and squeezes my knee. "Whatever happens, I'm here. Okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. The tea trembles in my cup, betraying the slight shake in my hands.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub in one of the guest bathrooms downstairs, staring at the white plastic stick balanced precariously on the counter. Megan paces in front of me, checking her phone every few seconds.
"How much longer?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Two more minutes." She glances at the timer she set. "God, these things take forever. You'd think they can come up with something better.”
"What am I going to do if it's positive?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Megan stops pacing and sits beside me. "One crisis at a time, okay?"
I lean my head against her shoulder, drawing comfort from her familiar presence. "I should've expected this. I was so careless."
"Hey, now's not the time to blame yourself." She wraps an arm around me. "Whatever that test says, we'll figure it out. Together."
The timer on her phone chimes, making us both jump. Neither of us moves.
"Do you want me to look?" Megan offers quietly.
I shake my head. "No. I need to do this."
Standing on shaky legs, I approach the counter. The test lies there innocently, as if it doesn't hold the power to completely upend my world. Again.
I pick it up, close my eyes, take a deep breath.
"Lacey?" Megan's voice seems to come from far away.
I open my eyes and look down at the window.
And see two pink lines stare back at me.
"I need another one," I tell Megan, my voice shaking. "There has to be some mistake."
Without hesitation, Megan hands me another white stick anyway. "They're all going to say the same thing."
My hands tremble as I take it from her. Five minutes later, I'm staring at yet another pair of pink lines swimming before my eyes.
Positive.
I extend my hand out to Megan for another, and even make her test one of them.
The same result: two lines on mine, and a single line on Megan's.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant with Vadim's child.
"You're going to be a mom…" She hugs me tight, but I can barely move.
A conflicting storm of fights for dominance inside of my mind—a swirl of monumental joy and icy uncertainty.
Like a slideshow, images flash before my eyes, each one coming faster than before: the faceless birth mother who abandoned me. An endless stream of people asking me where my real parents were. Freddy spitting the word McKinney at me like it's a curse. Mom wiping the tears from my face when I asked her why I don't look like her and Dad.
And at the end of it all, the beeping machines in Mom's hospital room in those final awful days as she begged, voice hardly stronger than a whisper for us to dry our tears so she can remember our smiles before she goes.
"Lacey?" Megan pulls back, studying my face. "What's wrong?"
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
"I don't know how to be a mom." My voice cracks.
"Lace." Megan grabs my shoulders. "Yes you do."
But doubt gnaws at me. "What if I mess this up? What if I'm not good enough?"
"Not good enough?" Megan scoffs. "Who made sure I ate properly during finals? Who helped me curl my hair for prom? Who was the one helping Dad while he forgot his own name? Who gave up on her own dreams to pick up the pieces in the family?"
"That's different?—"
"No, it's not. You've been mothering people your whole life. It's who you are." She squeezes my hands. "It's who you've always been."
I press my hand to my still-flat stomach, trying to process the reality that there's actually a life growing inside me. A tiny person who is half me and half Vadim. The thought makes me dizzy.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Of course you are. That's normal." Megan hugs me again. "But you're not alone in this. You have me, you have Vadim..."
Vadim. My heart skips. How am I going to tell him?