39. Sophie
39
SOPHIE
I t hits me like a freight train—sudden and overwhelming, leaving no time to prepare. One second, I’m in the bath, and the next, I’m rushing to the toilet, my stomach flipping like a storm-tossed ship.
I barely make it, gripping the edge as my knees threaten to buckle.
The nausea crashes over me in waves, and when it finally subsides, I’m left staring at the floor, my heart pounding.
“This can’t be happening,” I whisper, staggering over to the sink. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face.
I haven’t been feeling right for days—small things I chalked up to stress or bad food. But now I’ve missed a period too. And the nausea keeps coming.
Uh oh.
When I can stand, I go through to my bedroom, digging through my luggage, tossing clothes and random items onto the floor until I find what I’m looking for. A pregnancy test.
My chest tightens as I fumble with the packaging, pulling out the test and heading back to the bathroom.
I pee on the stick. The seconds stretch into an eternity as I wait for the result, my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the lines appear, bold and unflinching, my knees give out. I sink onto the damp floor, the test clutched in my hands.
Positive.
The word burns in my mind, sending a rush of fear and disbelief spiraling through me.
I press my forehead to my knees, trying to calm the storm raging inside me. A baby. Maxim’s baby. The thought is as terrifying as it is surreal.
I think about his cold gaze, his sharp edges, the way he moves through the world like it’s his to conquer. And then I think about his ruthlessness—what he did to Dimitri, the calculated violence that defines him.
How could I bring his child into this world? Would he see it as a weakness? A liability? Or something else entirely?
Thirty days is all he promised me. What if he thinks I got pregnant deliberately? I never once mentioned protection and neither did he. Are we both to blame for this?
My mind races through possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. But one thing becomes clear: I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I know what this means for me—for us.
I wrap the test in tissue and shove it deep into the trash, burying it under layers of discarded paper and wrappers. My hands still tremble as I wash up, splashing more cold water on my face.
You can do this, I tell myself, gripping the edge of the sink. You’ve handled worse. Just don’t let him know. Not yet.
By the time I leave the bathroom, my mask is firmly in place. My steps are steady, my expression neutral. But inside, the weight of the secret I’m now carrying feels impossibly heavy.
One question runs through my mind over and over. How the hell can I have a child with Maxim Abramov?