Chapter 15 - Gaby
The bed felt too big without him.
I'd gotten used to it over the past five days—or told myself I had. The empty space where his body should be, the silence where his breathing should fill the darkness, the cold sheets on his side that never warmed, no matter how many times I rolled into them during the night.
I missed him. The admission still felt like a betrayal of something—my pride, my principles, the woman I'd been before he'd torn my life apart. But there was no point denying it anymore. I missed Vasily Chernov with an ache that settled into my bones and refused to leave.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. I should get up. Should shower, dress, throw myself into the Athens acquisition like I'd been doing every day since he'd left. Work was the only thing that kept me from counting the hours until his return.
But my body felt wrong.
Heavy. Exhausted despite nine hours of sleep. When I sat up, a wave of nausea rolled through me, and I had to press my hand to my mouth and breathe slowly until it passed.
Stress. That's what this was. Anxiety about Vasily, about the war he was fighting in New York, about the future neither of us had defined. My body was simply manifesting what my mind refused to acknowledge.
I forced myself out of bed and into the bathroom. The nausea faded to a dull queasiness as I brushed my teeth, then surged back when I caught a whiff of the coffee Yelena had left outside my door.
Coffee. I'd been drinking coffee my entire adult life. It was practically a food group. And now the smell made me want to vomit.
I closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, breathing through my mouth.
Something was wrong.
I tried to ignore it.
Showered, dressed, made my way to the library where the Athens files waited. Yelena had replaced the coffee with tea—had she noticed my reaction?—and I sipped it carefully while reviewing the property assessments.
But concentration was impossible. My mind kept drifting to the wrongness in my body, cataloging symptoms I didn't want to examine too closely.
The nausea. The exhaustion. The way certain smells—fish from last night's dinner, the gardener's cigarette smoke drifting through an open window—made my stomach clench.
And something else. Something I'd noticed this morning while getting dressed, but had refused to think about.
My breasts were tender. Swollen. The bra that had fit perfectly last week was now uncomfortably tight.
I set down my tea and stared at the numbers on the screen without seeing them.
When was my last period?
I tried to remember. Before the kidnapping, certainly. I'd been so consumed with the Brown report, with work, with the paranoia of being watched, that I hadn't paid attention to my cycle. And then everything had happened so fast—the abduction, the island, the wedding, Vasily—
I counted backward. Once. Twice. A third time, hoping I'd made a mistake.
I was over two weeks late.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor, and walked to the window on unsteady legs.
No. This couldn't be happening. We'd only been together once—well, technically twice, but both times on the same night. What were the odds?
But I knew the odds. Had sat through enough health classes, read enough articles, heard enough cautionary tales. Once was all it took. And we hadn't used protection. I hadn't even thought about it, too swept up in the moment, in him, in the overwhelming need that had drowned out everything else.
Stupid. So incredibly, monumentally stupid.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and tried to think.
Maybe I was wrong. Stress could delay periods.
So could travel, diet changes, emotional upheaval—and God knew I'd experienced all of those in the past month.
The other symptoms could be explained away too.
I was eating different food, sleeping in an unfamiliar place, dealing with a level of anxiety I'd never experienced before.
It didn't have to be pregnancy.
But even as I told myself that, some deeper part of me knew. Some instinct I couldn't name, some awareness that had nothing to do with logic or evidence.
I knew.
***
Finding Yelena was easy. She was in the kitchen, discussing dinner plans with Despina. When she saw my face, her expression shifted—concern replacing the warm efficiency she usually wore.
"Mrs. Chernov? Is something wrong?"
"I need—" I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "I need something from the medical supplies."
"Of course. Are you feeling unwell?"
"I'm fine. I just need—" I couldn't say it. Couldn't form the words with Despina standing right there, her dark eyes curious. "Can we speak privately?"
Yelena nodded and led me to a small office off the main hallway. She closed the door and waited, her hands folded, her expression patient.
"I need a pregnancy test."
The words came out flat, emotionless. I watched her face for a reaction—shock, judgment, knowing amusement—but she gave nothing away.
"Of course," she said simply. "I'll bring one to your room."
"Do you have—I mean, is that something you keep here?"
"The medical supplies are comprehensive. Mr. Chernov insisted on it when he prepared the estate." A pause. "He wanted to be ready for any eventuality."
Any eventuality. Had he imagined this one? Had he thought about the possibility of a child when he'd stocked his island fortress with everything a person might need?
"Thank you," I managed. "And Yelena—please don't tell anyone. Not until I know for sure."
"Of course, Mrs. Chernov." Her expression softened slightly. "Whatever the result, you're not alone. I hope you know that."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and fled back to my room.
The test was simple. Two lines for positive, one line for negative. The instructions said to wait three minutes.
Three minutes had never felt so long.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub, the test lying face down on the counter, and tried to imagine both outcomes.
Negative: relief, a return to the uncertain but manageable situation I'd been navigating.
Positive: chaos. A child. His child. A tie that could never be severed, a complication that would reshape everything.
Which did I want?
A month ago, the answer would have been obvious. A month ago, I would have been horrified at the thought of carrying my kidnapper's baby, of being bound to him by something more permanent than a ring or a certificate.
But that was before the library conversations. Before the pool, the kiss, the night in his bed that had changed everything. Before I'd started seeing the man beneath the monster.
I didn't know what I wanted. Didn't know who I was anymore, or what kind of future I was capable of imagining.
The three minutes passed. I took a breath. Turned over the test.
Two lines.
I stared at them, waiting for the panic to hit. Waiting for the terror, the denial, the desperate wish that this wasn't happening.
Instead, I felt something else. Something unexpected.
My hand moved to my stomach—still flat, no sign of what was growing inside—and pressed against the skin.
A baby. There was a baby in there. A tiny cluster of cells that would become a person. A person who was half me and half Vasily, who would have his green eyes or my dark hair, who would grow up in a world I couldn't yet imagine.
I took the second test just to be sure. Same result. Two lines. Positive. Pregnant.
The tears came then—not grief or fear, but something more complicated. I sat on the cold bathroom floor and cried for the life I'd lost, the life I was living, and the life that was just beginning inside me.
When the tears finally stopped, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Red-eyed, pale, exhausted.
But alive. Changed. Carrying something precious I hadn't known I wanted.
"Okay," I whispered to my reflection. "Okay. We can do this."
I didn't know if I was talking to myself or the baby.
Maybe both.
***
I didn't tell Vasily that night.
I'd planned to. Had rehearsed the words in my head all afternoon, trying to find the right way to deliver news that would change both our lives. But when I heard his voice on the phone—tense, distracted, clearly exhausted—something held me back.
This wasn't news for a phone call. I needed to see his face. Needed to watch his reaction, to know whether the pregnancy was something he wanted or another complication in a life already drowning in them.
"How are you?" he asked, and I could hear the effort it took him to focus on me when his mind was clearly elsewhere.
"Fine. Working on the Athens analysis. Yelena's been taking good care of me."
"Good." A pause. "I'm coming back tomorrow."
My heart stuttered. "Tomorrow? I thought you said—"
"Things have changed. I'll be there by evening."
Something in his voice made my skin prickle. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
"Vasily."
"I mean it, Gabrielle. Everything is under control. I just need to be there. With you."
The intensity in his voice sent warmth spreading through my chest. He needed to be with me. Whatever was happening in New York, whatever crisis was demanding his attention, he was dropping everything to come back.
I wanted to tell him. The words pressed against my teeth, desperate to escape. I'm pregnant. We're having a baby. Everything is about to change.
But I held them back. One more day. I could wait one more day.
"I'll be here," I said instead. "Waiting."
"I know." His voice softened. "I miss you, little dove."
"I miss you too."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
The call ended, and I sat in the darkening room, my hand pressed to my stomach.
One more day.
***
That night, I noticed the guards.
I'd grown accustomed to their presence over the past weeks—the quiet men in dark suits who patrolled the perimeter, who nodded politely when I passed but rarely spoke. They were furniture, part of the landscape of my captivity that I'd stopped really seeing.
But tonight, there were more of them. Double the usual number on the western perimeter. Additional men stationed at the dock, at the helipad, at points along the road I'd never seen guarded before.
I found Yelena in the kitchen and asked as casually as I could. "Is something happening? The security seems... different tonight."
Her expression flickered—the briefest hesitation before her usual warm efficiency returned. "Mr. Chernov ordered additional precautions. Nothing to worry about."
"Why would he order additional precautions?"
"I'm sure he has his reasons, Mrs. Chernov. You know how protective he is."
She was lying. Or at least, not telling me the whole truth. I could see it in the way she avoided my eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders.
Something was wrong. Something Vasily wasn't telling me, something that had prompted him to triple the guards and fly back a week ahead of schedule.
Fear crept through me, cold and insidious. Not for myself—I'd grown strangely accustomed to the danger that surrounded my new life. But for the baby. For the tiny life I was carrying, the one who hadn't chosen any of this, who was already caught up in a world of violence and secrets.
I pressed my hand to my stomach and made a silent promise.
Whatever happens, I'll protect you. Whatever it takes.
***
Sleep came slowly that night.
I lay in the too-big bed, one hand resting on my abdomen, and tried to imagine the future.
A baby in this house, in this life. First steps on marble floors.
First words in English and Russian. A child who would grow up surrounded by guards and luxury, who would never know the fear of not being enough, who would be loved fiercely by a father who understood what it meant to protect what was his.
Because Vasily would love this child. I knew that with a certainty that surprised me. Whatever else he was—criminal, kidnapper, monster—he would be devoted to his son or daughter. Would burn the world down to keep them safe.
Just like he'd burned down my old life to keep me safe.
The thought should have frightened me. Instead, it brought a strange comfort.
I tried to imagine telling him. Watching his face change as the news sank in. Would he be happy? Terrified? Both? He'd never mentioned wanting children, but then again, neither had I. This wasn't something either of us had planned.
But maybe the best things never were.
I thought about my mother, dead before I'd really understood what I was losing. I thought about my father, with his cold expectations and his conditional love. I thought about the childhood I'd had—always striving, never enough, desperate for approval that never came.
This child would have something different. This child would know it was wanted, would never doubt that it mattered, would grow up secure in the knowledge that its parents would move mountains to protect it.
Its parents. The word felt strange in my mind. I was going to be a mother. Vasily was going to be a father.
We were going to be a family.
The thought settled over me like a warm blanket, and I realized with surprise that I was smiling.
Fear was still there, curled beneath the surface. Uncertainty about the future, about Vasily's reaction, about the world I'd be bringing a child into. But underneath the fear, something else was growing.
Hope. Fragile and tentative, but real.
I fell asleep with my hand pressed to my stomach and dreamed of green-eyed children running through sunlit gardens.