Chapter 19 - Petyr
PETYR
I lead Sima by the arm into the private study of Dr. Maryam Agar.
Sima catches sight of the name on the plaque and snorts. “Of course. A woman. God forbid I get frisky with a male doctor behind the curtain. Maybe I’d end up double pregnant.”
“Don’t start.”
“Too late. You dragged me in here like I can’t put one foot in front of the other.
Do you want me to thank you for the privilege of seeing a doctor for your own peace of mind?
Should I clap while you watch?” She pretends to gasp and covers her face with one hand.
“I know! We’ll have a party. A nice baby shower. ”
“Sima…”
“The doctor will put the results in the cake. Then we can invite everyone who’s still alive from the wedding.” She claps like she can’t wait. “Oh, and Bella Hadid.”
I tighten my grip on her arm until she wrenches free and sits down hard in the chair across from me.
“Very gentlemanly,” she mutters.
“Be quiet.” I glance around the waiting room to check if anyone is looking at us. But Dr. Agar’s other patients seem absorbed in their own matters. No one pays any attention to the bickering couple in the corner.
My gaze sweeps over the other couples. They look happy. Radiant. Trading hugs and kisses like it’s the luckiest day of their lives.
When I glance back down at Sima, I realize she’s looking, too. “You really think I’d lie to you about this,” she whispers, her sarcasm gone.
My jaw works, but nothing comes out.
“Of course you do,” she goes on. “That’s your favorite trick. Whatever I say, you twist it.”
“You’ve lied before.” I’m getting sick of hearing myself say that, though. Every time I fling that accusation at Sima, it starts feeling more and more like I’m repeating lines rather than saying something I believe in.
Her arms fold tight across her chest. “I lied because you gave me no choice. You think I wanted to live like this? I wanted to survive.”
I narrow my eyes. “So maybe you’re surviving now.”
“And what would lying about the baby do for me? Buy me a few weeks? Make you change your mind about letting me go? You already said that’s not an option.”
“It’s not.”
“Right. So then stop pretending I’m playing games with you. You’re the one playing games. With my life.” She shakes her head, eyes burning. “If you don’t trust me, then at least admit you don’t trust yourself.”
I shift in my seat instead of firing back. That knot of unease in my chest hasn’t loosened since last night. I keep replaying her words in my head.
“You’ve lied to me since the beginning. About what you wanted. What I was to you. Don’t act like you’re the only one with the right to doubt.”
She asked why she would lie when the truth would be obvious soon enough. I brushed it off last night, but it keeps echoing now as I sit in the waiting room.
By the time our appointment hour rolls around, my mind is a tangled mess of second thoughts.
She’s right. Fuck me, she’s right.
Yes, she lied about who she was. She pretended to be someone else when she walked into my house.
But I lied, too. I looked her in the eye and acted like I didn’t know she was a Danilo.
Except that I did. I knew from the start. And I let her believe otherwise simply because it suited me. I thought I could use her, bend her, and break her into what I needed.
No wonder she took off the first chance she got.
I clench my fists in my lap. The leather of my gloves creaks. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that the past is done.
But the truth is that it does matter. It eats at me. I built a bonfire of fury on the idea that she betrayed me, and I shoved her in it every chance I got. And all this time, I’ve been standing amidst burning lies of my own.
“Mrs. Gubarev?”
Sima rises slowly when the nurse calls her name, one hand on her belly.
I stand, too. She doesn’t look at me, but I follow anyway.
Inside the exam room, the air smells like disinfectant and cheap soap. I stand by the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on every movement.
“Good morning,” the doctor greets, pulling on a pair of gloves. “I’m Dr. Agar. Let’s see how the little one is doing, shall we?”
Sima climbs onto the table with the nurse’s help. She lies back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her jaw is set. I can read the tension in her shoulders even before the doctor begins.
“This won’t take long,” Dr. Agar assures her. “Cold gel first. Sorry about that.”
Sima flinches when it touches her skin. I move a step forward before I can stop myself, then draw back.
The wand glides over her stomach. The machine hums, and then the sound fills the room.
A steady beat. Fast. Strong.
“Heartbeat looks excellent,” the doctor observes. “Nice and steady.”
My breath snags in my lungs. I can’t move. On the monitor, the shape flickers into view.
My child.
“There the baby is,” the doctor continues. She adjusts the angle of the probe. “Growth is right on schedule. Everything looks healthy.”
I grip the edge of the counter. My fingers bite into the surface. The air feels too thin. I can’t take my eyes off the screen.
Without thinking, my hand reaches for Sima’s.
Sima stiffens at first. God knows she’s got every right to. I lied to her, locked her up, then forced her to go through with this appointment just to prove to me she was telling the truth.
But then…
… slowly…
… she laces her fingers with mine.
I look down at her. Her eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears that haven’t fallen yet. She looks exhausted, angry, but beneath it all is something I can’t ignore: love for the life inside her.
It’s the one thing we’ll always agree on.
The doctor clears her throat. “Would you like to know the sex?”
“Yes,” I answer before Sima can.
Sima’s lips curl downwards. Maybe she was hoping I’d changed my mind. That I’d trust her.
But I need to know for myself.
The doctor adjusts the probe again and points to the screen. “There. You see? That’s your daughter.”
I exhale hard. My daughter. No more doubts.
Sima’s gaze flickers to me. Her lips part, trembling, but she doesn’t speak. The tears in her eyes shine brighter now.
Whatever is between us—hatred, lies, control—this child is ours. And she loves her already. I can see it in her face.
I feel the weight of what I’ve done pressing down. Locking her in rooms, doubting every word. I treated her like a threat when she’s carrying the only piece of me that matters.
I grip her hand tighter. For once, she doesn’t pull away.
The doctor keeps narrating, voice calm. “Placenta looks good. The position is ideal. You’re both in excellent shape, Mama.”
The screen keeps showing my daughter’s heartbeat. I realize that, for the first time in months, I’m not thinking about wars or lies.
I’m just a man staring at his child, wondering how the hell he managed to turn the woman carrying her into a prisoner.