Chapter 18 #2
“I had every right,” I say, arms crossed, jaw tightening. “He’s my son too.”
“You think that gives you permission to bulldoze through every decision I’ve had to make on my own for the last five years?”
“I didn’t bulldoze,” I snap. “I brought in someone better. Dr. Halberd is fine. But fine isn’t good enough when it’s my kid’s life on the line.”
Her eyes widen at that—my kid—and her jaw clenches so hard I can hear her teeth grind.
“He’s not just your kid,” she says, stepping closer.
“He’s mine. He’s been mine since the day I found out I was pregnant.
Through every fever. Every test. Every night I stayed awake praying to a God I don’t believe in that I wouldn’t lose him before I got the money to pay for another round of meds. ”
Her words hit like glass to the chest, and still—still—I don’t flinch.
“Which is exactly why you should’ve told me sooner,” I say, quieter now. “So you wouldn’t have had to carry it all by yourself.”
She laughs once—cold, brittle. “Oh, you think it would’ve changed anything?”
I look at her. Really look at her. Tired eyes. Trembling hands. She’s held everything together with string and instinct, and here I am—walking in like a wrecking ball dressed in tailored suits.
“It would’ve changed everything, Nadya,” I say. “Because you wouldn’t have been alone.”
She falters. But only for a moment.
“You think a new doctor buys your way into their lives?” she asks, voice trembling now, not with rage, but with something deeper.
Fear, maybe. Hurt. “You think Mila curling into your side one night erases five years of nothing? You can’t just show up and fix things with money and power, Konstantin. It doesn’t work like that.”
She doesn’t say anything for a beat—just looks at me like she’s trying to decide who I really am beneath the suit and the ruthlessness and the years of absence.
“I’m not trying to buy them,” I say, my voice harder than I mean it to be. “I’m trying to keep him alive.”
Before she can throw the next line, a throat clears behind us—pointed and unmistakably deliberate.
We both turn. Dr. Rhodes stands a few feet away, arms folded across his clipboard, his brow slightly raised in that too-polite, clinical way that says, I’ve heard every word and I’m pretending not to judge you.
“We’re still in a hospital,” he says calmly. “And your son’s vitals have climbed in the last five minutes.”
Nadya flushes, her mouth parting in a quiet, shocked exhale. I run a hand down my face, suddenly aware of just how loud we were—how deeply we slipped into our own chaos without thinking about who might be watching.
“We’ll keep it down,” I mutter.
Dr. Rhodes doesn’t smile. He glances back at Nikolai’s monitor and then down at his notes. “I need access to every medication he’s been on in the last three years. Doses. Timelines. Any off-prescription treatments, vitamin protocols, even traditional remedies. All of it.”
Nadya steps forward quickly, her voice regaining control. “I have all the records at my apartment. I kept everything. Hard copies and digital backups.”
“Perfect,” Rhodes says, already scribbling a note. “Bring them by as soon as you can. The more history I have, the more accurate the next round of tests will be.”
She nods, grabbing her bag. “I’ll go now. It’s only fifteen minutes away.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say instinctively, already moving to follow.
She turns, lips parting to argue, but before she can speak, a small voice breaks the air behind us. “Mommy?”
We both stop.
Nikolai’s sitting up slightly, pale and blinking, looking between the two of us. His small voice is barely above a whisper. “Is it true?” he asks. “Is he…really my dad?”
Time stops.
The machines hum softly. A nurse walks past outside the glass. A clipboard snaps shut somewhere in the hall. But inside this room, everything freezes.
Nadya stiffens beside me. I see the fury spark in her eyes before she even looks at me. I have a feeling if we weren’t at the hospital, she would stab me right here and now.
She walks over to him quickly, her face softening, crouching at his side. “Baby, don’t worry about that right now,” she murmurs, brushing his hair back. “You just rest, okay? Mommy will be right back.”
He nods once, sleep already pulling him back under. She kisses his forehead, stands, and walks out of the room without a single glance in my direction.
I follow her.
The door closes behind us with a whisper and the moment we hit the hallway, Nadya spins on me.
“I can’t believe you told him,” she says through her teeth, keeping her voice down but laced with fury. “You told Nikolai you’re his father.”
“I didn’t plan to, Nadya,” I snap, matching her low tone, “but I wasn’t going to lie to him either.”
She turns toward me, eyes flashing. “He’s five. He’s scared. And he’s sick. You just dropped that on him without warning?”
“You weren’t there,” I say tightly. “What was I supposed to do? Lie again?”
“You could’ve told me first,” she hisses, as we walk toward the car. “You could’ve let me tell him, on my terms. Not in a fucking hospital room after you stormed in and changed his entire care team like you were buying a goddamn car.”
We reach the car, the black SUV Lev left parked out front. Her hand is already on the door when I grab her wrist and pull her back.
She spins to face me, furious and breathless. “You don’t get to do this, Konstantin. You don’t get to sweep in, throw your power around, and then make yourself the hero—”
I shove her back against the side of the car, not hard, just enough to make her gasp and stop talking.
My body is pressed flush to hers, my hand flat against the door beside her head, caging her in. Her eyes are wide, chest rising fast beneath her coat. She opens her mouth like she’s about to yell, but I dip my head closer and her breath catches.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Say you don’t want this.”
She glares at me, fire flashing in her eyes—but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t push me away.
“You’re such a bastard,” she breathes.
I lean in closer, brushing my lips against the curve of her cheek. “You’ve known that since Barcelona.”
She shudders.
I feel it—feel the way her anger twists, folds in on itself, becomes something else entirely.
My hand slips up her thigh, fingers sliding beneath the edge of her coat, just enough to make her tremble. “You’re still mine, Nadya,” I whisper against her ear.
She grips the lapels of my jacket, breathing uneven.
“You want to yell at me?” I whisper, voice low and hot against her ear. “Do it. But don’t pretend you don’t feel this.”
My hips press against hers, and I feel the sharp intake of her breath. Her hands are fisted in my jacket, like she wants to shove me away—or pull me closer.
“Konstantin…” she says, almost like a warning, but it sounds more like a plea.
“You hate me, right?” I murmur, mouth hovering over hers. “But not enough to stop thinking about last night.”
Her lips part. Her body trembles slightly against mine.
“Say you don’t want me right now.”
She doesn’t. She can’t.
I brush my mouth over her jaw—just once—and feel her shiver. Then I pull back, just enough to see her face, her lips swollen, her expression furious and wrecked with want.
“We should go,” I say roughly. “You’ve got files to collect.”
She blinks, still dazed.
“Get in the car, Nadya.”
She does, without another word. And I follow—hands still tingling from where they touched her, jaw tight with restraint. Because if I don’t drive us out of here right now, I’ll end up taking her right here in the damn parking lot.
The air inside the car is thick enough to choke on.
Nadya sits beside me, arms crossed, jaw tight, her entire body radiating defiance.
I can still feel the heat of her pressed against the car, the soft catch of her breath when my hand slid up her thigh.
She might have shoved me off, but that desire—it’s still there. Still simmering beneath her fury.
I grip the wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road, but the tension between us hums like a live wire. I don’t say anything. Neither does she.
And then I notice it. A black SUV, two cars back. Tinted windows.
Subtle, but not subtle enough for someone like me.
I make a right.
Nadya doesn’t react.
Another right turn.
Still there.
I glance at the rearview again. They’re hanging back, just enough to think I won’t clock it. Wrong.
I take a third right. Back onto the same street we were on two minutes ago.
“They’re still there,” Nadya says quietly.
I glance at her. She’s staring into the side mirror, brows drawn, body suddenly alert. There’s no fear in her voice.
My lips twitch. Not quite a smile. More like a flicker of admiration.
“I didn’t tell you we were being followed,” I say.
“You didn’t have to,” she replies, eyes still scanning. “You’ve been watching your mirrors like a paranoid drug dealer since the first turn.”
I bark out a quiet laugh. “Remind me again who taught you that?”
“My uncle,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“What else did he teach you?”
She smiles politely. “You don’t want to know.”
But damn it, I know.
I glance at her again, really look. “Jesus.”
“What?” She shrugs. “You think I survived this long on soft eyes and polite manners?”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I’m starting to see just how many layers she’s been hiding beneath that careful anger and those tired smiles.
I press the accelerator slightly, changing lanes without signaling, then cut across a small intersection toward a dimly lit street. I want to see if they follow this time.
They do.
“They’re not just following,” I mutter. “They’re tracking.”
Her voice stays steady. “Bratva or someone else?”
I don’t answer right away. My jaw tightens. My thoughts go straight to Dmitry.
No, he can’t possibly be so brazen.
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Whoever they are, they’re about to regret it.”