Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Anna
I tossed and turned, couldn't sleep.
Maybe I should've never stayed here in the first place.
I never thought Ivan would doubt me. Never imagined Nadia would throw me under the bus.
Ivan...
He'd brought me home, bandaged my wounds, gave me a roof where I could sleep without fear. He'd thrown me a birthday party in the garden—candlelight flickering in his eyes, violin drifting through the flowers. I thought, I really thought, we were different.
But how could we be?
At the end of the day, I was still an outsider. Some broke girl he'd picked up on a whim. Sure, he gave me a place to crash, but he'd never let me touch his boundaries.
Even when it was all fake.
He wouldn't even give me basic trust. Wouldn't let me leave either. He wanted to keep me in place, play by his rules. What did that make me? Some obedient cat? A potted plant shoved in the corner?
It wasn't fair.
I couldn't keep living by his terms. This wasn't my home. I couldn't nail myself to this spot just because of some pathetic attachment.
I crawled out of bed, yanked open the closet, pulled out my few pieces of clothing, folded them one by one, stuffed them in my suitcase.
When I zipped it shut, my eyes drifted to the back of the closet—that suit jacket still hung there, the one he'd draped over me the day he brought me back.
I was angry at him. Angry at myself. But I still pulled it down, hugged it close, buried my face in it and breathed deep.
That scent was still there.
Faint cedar mixed with tobacco. The most comforting smell I'd ever known.
I folded it carefully, tucked it in the bottom of my suitcase.
The only piece of him I could steal away.
A soft knock at the door. Then Nadia's small voice. "Anna, are you asleep?"
I closed the suitcase, cleared my throat. "Come in."
The door cracked open. Nadia clutched that nearly bald bunny of hers, eyes darting toward me nervously.
She spotted the suitcase. Froze. Then ran over on bare feet.
"Anna, are you leaving?"
"Yeah."
"Because of me?"
Nadia's eyes went redder. She pressed an envelope into my hands carefully, still warm from her palms.
"Anna, I'm sorry."
That last stubborn bit of hurt in me dissolved. Like something soft had bumped into me—didn't hurt, just made everything ache.
I crouched down and wiped her tears. "Nadia, this isn't about you. I need to go back and finish school."
"But you're still leaving Dad."
Her tears fell in strings, like beads rolling off a broken necklace.
I sighed, kissed her forehead. "Nadia, your dad and I breaking up isn't what you think. We have too many problems. This has nothing to do with you."
"Then..." She choked. "Can you stay?"
I couldn't promise her that.
All I could say was, "Okay. I won't leave right now. But you need to go back to bed."
Hearing my answer, Nadia lit up. She bounced off the bed like a little rabbit, bare feet thumping across the floor as she ran out.
I watched her go.
Moonlight leaked through the window, cutting a thin silver line across the envelope. I stared at that line for a while before slowly tearing it open.
Inside was a note. Handwriting wobbly, the way only a kid's could be.
"Anna, I'm so sorry.
Mom made me say those things. She said you were destroying my family. But I know that's not true. You're making my family whole.
Mom hit me. Made me say those awful things I didn't mean.
Anna, please don't leave. You know I like you."
I read it once.
Twice.
Three times.
My eyes burned. Hot. Stinging.
So that was it.
Nadia was so small, but her own mother forced her to lie. She was just terrified. Scared of losing her dad, scared of making Mom angry, scared this barely warm home would shatter again.
And my presence? A disaster for her.
She didn't understand she was collateral damage in a grown-up war. Victoria's weapon to drive me out.
Now she'd handed me the knife. And said sorry.
I gripped that thin piece of paper. I knew then—it was time to go.
For Nadia. For myself. Ivan had bought me, but I shouldn't be some decoration sitting in this house, waiting to be dusted off or thrown away.
Dawn was breaking. The hallway was silent, everyone still asleep.
I grabbed my suitcase and pushed open Ivan's study door.
Documents still spread across the desk. His pen lying there, cap off.
I placed Nadia's letter in the center of the desk, pressed the pen down on one corner so he'd see it the moment he walked in.
Then I stood there, staring at that chair. For a long time.
This was where he spent most of his days. Where I'd sat quietly in the corner countless times, reading, stealing glances at him.
I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle, forced back that wave of ache trying to rise. Turned. Walked out. Closed the door softly behind me.
On my way downstairs, I ran into Victoria.
She leaned against the banister in a silk robe, hair loosely pinned, still as flawless as the first time I'd seen her. But I could see through the polished surface now. See the ugliness underneath.
Victoria saw my suitcase. Her lips curled slowly. "Leaving?"
I lowered my head. Ignored her.
Victoria kept talking. "Ivan told me in bed last night—girls like you really think one good fuck makes you a trophy wife? Take a look at yourself. That poverty stench in your bones? You think you can wash that off?"
I gripped the suitcase handle tighter. My fingers went white.
They talked about me like that? In bed?
To them, my feelings for Ivan were nothing but cheap entertainment.
I took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in my throat. Didn't stop. Didn't look back. Walked past her, shoulder brushing her perfectly pressed silk dress. She clicked her tongue, stepped aside like I'd contaminated her.
I pulled open the heavy carved door. Walked out.
Las Vegas morning light hit my face. Gray-white, same as when I'd arrived. Low clouds wrapped the city in a thin layer of chill.
Wind swept in from the edge of the estate, made my eyes sting.
It was colder than the day I came.
I dragged my suitcase to a stop at the Seventh Avenue exit of Penn Station.
The steps were wet. Just rained. The air hung thick, mixed with grease from the hot dog cart and damp steam rising from the sewers.
I stood under the awning, staring at the gray buildings across the street. For a second, it felt like I'd never left.
Before Gary's creditors grabbed me, I'd rented a tiny room in Brooklyn. Kitchen stove right next to the foot of the bed, half-dead pothos on the windowsill.
I picked up my suitcase, climbed the stairs one by one. Figured I'd crash at that rental first.
At least it had a roof. Somewhere to hide from the rain.
It started raining again.
Fine drizzle slipped down my collar, dampened my hair, stuck it to my forehead. Cold. Itchy.
I pulled my collar up, stood at the curb, tried to flag a cab.
"Hey, Anna."
A familiar voice stopped me.
I turned.
A man in a dark gray trench coat. Sharp nose, deep-set eyes, warm brown irises lighting up with undisguised relief.
"God, I've been looking everywhere for you." He opened his umbrella and walked toward me. "You didn't answer texts, didn't reply to emails. I was this close to filing a missing person's report."
My classmate. Chris Harris.
I opened my mouth. My throat felt tight.
I'd been in a daze for days. My phone died ages ago. I hadn't seen any messages.
Looking at Chris's worried face, all I could manage was, "Family stuff."
Chris's gaze slid down from my face and landed on the mud spatters on my pant legs.
He didn't press. Just tilted his umbrella toward me, most of it covering my head while rain soaked his shoulder.
"My car's over there. Let me give you a ride."
I wanted to refuse.
But Chris took my suitcase, naturally pulled me toward where he'd parked.
The rain picked up. Droplets hammered the umbrella.
When I sank into the passenger seat, I still felt dazed.
Chris pulled some tissues from the glove box and handed them over. "Anna, that job you asked me to look out for? Got a lead. There's a working professional nearby heading out of town, needs a temp tutor for a couple weeks."
"Really?" I wiped the water off my face. "That's great. Thanks."
Chris joked, "If you really want to thank me, just answer my messages from now on."
Outside, the rain blurred the streets into smudges of color. Sycamore leaves along the road curled up, exposing their gray-green undersides. Water rushed along the curb toward the drains.
I stared out the window. Said nothing.
Chris didn't push. Just drove quietly, took me back to my rental.
Before he left, he said, "The client's leaving the day after tomorrow. If you're free, you can meet her tomorrow, nail down the schedule and details."
"Okay."
From that day on, I went back to my old life.
Classes during the day. Prep at night. Lying in bed at midnight staring at the ceiling.
I still thought about Ivan.
Every time, I called myself pathetic.
Who can't I live without?
That night, I was about to wash up when my stomach suddenly lurched. Acid surged up from the bottom of my throat. I bolted to the toilet, crouched down, retched until there was nothing left.
I stared at myself in the mirror. My face was ghostly pale. Lips completely bloodless.
I stumbled back a step.
Something by my foot got kicked.
I looked down. Empty pickle jars scattered everywhere, rolling across the floor.
I stared at them, counted—empty, empty, all empty.
Then it hit me. I hadn't had my period in almost a month.
Pregnant?
Could I be pregnant?
Gripping the cold edge of the sink, my heart pounded. Panic and hope crawled through me.
I splashed cold water on my face. The icy shock made my skin tighten.
The face staring back at me in the mirror was still pale, but something in my eyes had changed. I held that gaze for two seconds, then grabbed my coat and ran downstairs.
The twenty-four-hour pharmacy on the corner glowed harsh white.
I stood at the entrance for three seconds. Took a hard breath.
Calm down.
Anna, stay calm.
I walked in with forced composure. Grabbed a pregnancy test. Paid. One smooth motion.
Clutching the test, I ran all the way back to my rental.
Sitting on the toilet seat in the bathroom, I stared at the small plastic stick in my hand. Every passing second felt painfully slow. When the pale pink second line gradually appeared, a single thought filled my mind.
I'm screwed.
The room was quiet.
On the windowsill, the half-dead pothos drooped a vine, thin and long, the tip curling slightly.
I looked down at the two lines on the test.
Pink. Fine. Not fading.
A baby.
Ivan's baby.
I walked to the window. Outside, a police siren wailed past. Brooklyn's streetscape looked gray. Across the street, half the neon sign was busted, the other half flickering on and off. The light couldn't reach my tiny room.
I pressed my hand to my stomach. Palm flat against the thin fabric. Nothing there. Completely flat.
But I knew. Life was growing.
I suddenly remembered—when I was little, I couldn't take Gary's cruelty anymore and ran to find Mom.
She'd already remarried by then. New husband. New kid.
I looked through their glass window. The three of them sat around the dinner table, warm and perfect.
That window was spotless. Reflected my shadow. Split me and them into two worlds.
That day, I understood—I had no family anymore.
The world was so vast. And I was alone.
A breeze blew.
I thought I caught Ivan's familiar cedar scent.
I looked up. That suit jacket I'd stolen—I'd washed it, hung it outside to dry.
Wind filled the sleeves, puffed them up then deflated them, like an empty hug. Then a business card tumbled out of the pocket. I reached out instinctively. Caught it.
Ivan Volkov.
I stared at that phone number. For a long, long time.
Then I tore it apart. The fragments slipped from my palm like little white butterflies, floating over the rooftops, past the neon lights, and into Brooklyn's gray, heavy night, where they vanished without a trace.
"Keep it."
"For myself."
My eyes burned. But I didn't cry.
From now on, I had family.
I'd never be alone again.