Chapter 9 Vera
VERA
There are nine layers of hell according to Dante but I would like to include a tenth layer. And that’s the smell of eggs. Specifically, eggs benedict.
I’ve been sitting at the breakfast table for fifteen minutes, trying to breathe through my mouth, and not to look at the plate in front of me.
I’m trying so desperately not to vomit all over the white tablecloth.
The hollandaise sauce gleams in the morning light, rich and yellow and utterly repulsive.
The smell (which would normally be delicious) fills my nose and mouth. I want to die.
I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and pretend everything is fine. I can’t—
“You’re not eating.”
Dimitri’s voice cuts through my internal panic.
He sits at the other end of the table—not as far as he used to, but still maintaining distance—watching me with those assessing gray eyes.
This is new, these breakfast requirements.
Part of his “keep Vera under constant surveillance” protocol since the attack two weeks ago.
Two weeks. It’s been exactly two weeks since the wedding, which means I’m eight weeks pregnant now (give or take since I haven’t been to the doctor). Eight weeks of hiding this secret and morning sickness that’s become all-day sickness. Eight weeks of terror that someone will figure it out.
And somehow, the morning sickness has gotten worse.
So, so much worse. It’s not just mornings anymore—it’s all day, every day.
The smell of coffee makes me gag. The sight of meat turns my stomach.
Everything is too strong, too much, too overwhelming of my senses until I want to crawl out of my own skin.
“I’m not hungry,” I manage, my voice thin.
“You need to eat.” He cuts into his own eggs benedict and I squeeze my hands on my lap to prevent myself from gagging. “You barely touched dinner last night.”
Dinner last night was salmon, and the smell made me run to the bathroom where I dry-heaved for ten minutes, but I can’t tell him that.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the same lie I’ve been telling for weeks. “I’m just not feeling breakfast food this morning.”
He sets down his fork, and I can feel his eyes boring into me. Studying. Analyzing. Looking for whatever I’m hiding, because he knows I’m hiding something. He’s known something was wrong since that first dinner, but he hasn’t pushed. Not yet.
Not until now.
“You’ve lost more weight,” he observes. “Mrs. Kozlov says you’re barely eating anything. That you send back half your meals uneaten.”
Goddamn that woman. She’s really starting to piss me off.
“I’ve just been stressed,” I say, still not looking at him as I’m staring at that horrible, glistening sauce. “After the attack, I haven’t had much appetite.”
I can hear the frown. “It’s been two weeks.”
“I’m aware of how much time has passed,” I snap.
Another wave of nausea hits me, stronger than before. The smell seems to be getting worse, more intense, like it’s physically crawling down my throat. My mouth fills with saliva and cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and down my back.
I need to leave. Now. Before—
“Vera, look at me.”
I force my eyes up to meet his. Big mistake. The movement makes the room tilt sickeningly. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
“What is going on with you?” His voice has an edge of frustration and something else. Concern? No, that can’t be right. “And don’t say you’re fine, because you’re clearly not.”
“I just need—” Another wave, stronger. The room spins. “I need to be excused.”
I push back from the table, but I move too fast. Way too fast. The world tilts violently to the left, and suddenly I’m not sure which way is up. The floor seems to be rushing toward me, or maybe I’m falling toward it, I can’t tell the difference.
I hear Dimitri say something, his voice sharp with alarm, but it sounds like it’s coming from very far away. Or like I’m underwater and he’s shouting from the surface.
Then everything goes dark.
I wake to gentle hands and a kind voice.
“Easy now. Don’t try to sit up too quickly.”
My eyes flutter open. I’m in my bed? Wait, when did I get here? How did I get here? The last thing I remember is the breakfast room, the smell of eggs, and the floor rushing up to meet me.
“There we are. Welcome back, Mrs. Volkov.”
The voice belongs to an older man I’ve never seen before.
He’s in his sixties, with an average build, kind blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and thinning white hair combed neatly to the side.
His face is gentle, trustworthy, and creased with concern.
He wears a simple button-down shirt and slacks—not fancy, but clean and professional.
A doctor. This must be a doctor.
“I’m Dr. Petrov,” he confirms, as if reading my thoughts. “I’ve been the Volkov family physician for over thirty years. Mr. Volkov called me when you fainted. How are you feeling?”
I try to sit up, and he helps me, adjusting the pillows behind my back. My head pounds. My mouth tastes like metal. And the nausea—oh God, the nausea is still there, churning in my stomach.
“Dizzy,” I whisper. “Nauseous.”
Dr. Petrov nods. “I’m not surprised. Your blood pressure is quite low.” He makes a note on a small pad. “Tell me, when did you last have a proper meal? Something substantial?”
“I... I don’t remember. A few days ago, maybe?”
“And how long have you been feeling unwell?”
“A while. Couple weeks.” Every word feels like a minefield.
Then I notice him.
Dimitri stands by the window, his back to us, staring out at the grounds. He’s completely rigid, his shoulders tense, and his hands clasped behind his back so tightly I can see the white of his knuckles from here. He hasn’t said a word since I woke up or even turned around.
But I can feel his presence like a weight in the room. Heavy. Oppressive. Waiting.
“Mrs. Volkov, I need to ask you some routine questions.” Dr. Petrov’s voice is gentle. If anything else, the man has an excellent bedside manner. “Nothing to worry about. Just standard procedure for a fainting episode. Is that all right?”
I nod, even though I know—I know—where this is going. There’s only one question that matters, and he’s going to ask it, and I’m going to have to answer, and everything is going to fall apart.
“Have you been experiencing any other symptoms? Headaches, fatigue, sensitivity to smells?”
“Yes," I whisper, my heart pounding. “All of those.”
“And your appetite? You mentioned nausea. Is it worse at certain times of day?”
“It’s—it’s all the time now. Morning, afternoon, evening. Everything smells wrong. Everything makes me feel sick.”
He makes another note, and I see a shift in his expression. There’s Understanding. Realization.
Oh no. Oh God, no.
“Mrs. Volkov, I need to ask you one more question.” His voice is still gentle, but there’s a significance to it now. “When was your last menstrual period?”
I can’t breathe or do anything except stare at him with what must be pure terror on my face.
Because Dimitri is right there. He’s going to hear. He’s going to know.
“Mrs. Volkov?” Dr. Petrov prompts gently.
“I—” My voice cracks. “I don’t—”
Dimitri turns from the window.
Those gray eyes lock onto mine, and I see the exact moment he understands what the doctor is asking, and what it means. His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens and intensifies.
“Answer the question, Vera,” he commands.
Dr. Petrov glances between us, sensing the tension. “Mr. Volkov, perhaps it would be better if I spoke with your wife privately? Some women are more comfortable discussing—”
“I’m not leaving.” Dimitri says icily. He moves closer to the bed, and it takes everything in me not to shrink back. “Answer the question.”
I look at Dr. Petrov desperately, silently begging him to make Dimitri leave, to give me even a moment to think and figure out what to say. But the doctor just gives me a small, sympathetic nod.
This is happening. Right now. There’s no way out.
“Eight weeks ago,” I whisper. It’s barely audible and quiet. I almost hope he didn’t hear it.
But he did and the silence that follows is deafening.
Dr. Petrov’s expression change completely. The gentle concern is replaced by sharp professional focus. “Eight weeks. Are you certain?”
I nod, unable to speak. I’m unable to look at Dimitri or do anything except sit here and wait for everything to explode.
“I see.” Dr. Petrov stands, moving to a bag I hadn’t noticed on the floor. “Mr. Volkov, Mrs. Volkov, I’m going to need to do a brief examination. Given the symptoms and the timeline, I want to rule out—or confirm—a possibility.”
“What possibility?” Dimitri’s voice is eerily calm. Too calm. The calm before the storm.
Dr. Petrov pulls out what looks like a small machine with a screen and a wand attached by a cord. “A portable ultrasound. It will only take a moment.”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
“Wait—” I start, but Dr. Petrov is already moving the machine next to the bed and plugging it in.
“This is just a precaution, Mrs. Volkov,” he says soothingly as if he can see my panic. “Nothing to worry about. If you could just lie back and lift your shirt slightly?”
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the hem of my shirt. This is it. This is the moment everything ends. Once that ultrasound turns on, once he finds what I know he’s going to find, there’s no more hiding. No more pretending. No more secrets.
Just truth. Terrible, devastating truth.
I lift my shirt with trembling hands, exposing my stomach. Dr. Petrov squirts cold gel on my skin, and I flinch at the sensation.
“This might be a bit uncomfortable,” he says kindly, pressing the wand against my abdomen. “Just try to relax.”
Relax. Right. I’m about to be exposed in the worst possible way, and he wants me to relax.
I can’t look at the screen. I can’t watch as he moves the wand, searching, his eyes focused on the monitor. I can’t bear to see the moment he finds it.
But I can’t not look either.