Chapter 49 Olivia
OLIVIA
Not heartbreak or humiliation, no, definitely not that. Just a bad mattress. I’m basically the Princess and the Pea.
No, actually, you’re a glorified oven.
I roll onto my side and tug the unfamiliar sheets higher. The fabric smells wrong—lavender instead of Stefan’s cologne.
Actually, everything about this room feels wrong. Too beige. Too impersonal. Too far from—
No.
I’m not doing this.
I push myself upright, then immediately regret the sudden movement. The room wobbles. My mouth floods with saliva.
I jump to my feet and race to the bathroom. The floor tiles are frigid under my bare feet—I swear living in this house is like walking around on an ice rink.
I splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection. I know what I’ll see: dark circles, pale skin, lip swollen from chewing on it until the wee hours of the morning.
Another wave of nausea hits. This time, I don’t fight it. I just kneel in front of the toilet and let it come.
When it passes, I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain. My hands shake as I reach for toilet paper.
It’s too early. One missed period means nothing. The nausea is psychosomatic. The fatigue is from poor sleep. The tender breasts are—
“Stop.” I say it out loud. “Cut that out.”
But my hand drifts to my abdomen anyway. Flat. Empty. Probably.
Definitely.
I force myself to stand, to brush my teeth and act normal. It’s not like I’m counting the days backwards in my head, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m doing the math and panicking every time the answer comes out way, way too big.
I comb out the knots in my hair like that’ll fix anything, then lean on the counter, too drained to drag myself back to that nightmare mattress. The thought of lying down in that beige, airless room again makes my chest tighten.
Mostly, I don’t want to be alone in it.
So I sink to the floor, back against the cabinet. The tiles are cold through my nightgown. At some point, I give up and curl sideways on the bathmat, knees pulled to my chest, cheek against terrycloth. Not comfortable, not really—but better than the guest bed.
The bathroom hums faintly with the heating vent. My eyelids sag, heavy as lead. I doze in fits, jerking awake every time my stomach clenches or a house-settling creak makes me think of footsteps.
Hours pass like that. Snatches of half-sleep. A trickle of gray light sneaking around the blackout curtains. The taste of bile lingering no matter how many times I rinse my mouth.
By the time I force myself up, legs prickling with pins and needles, dawn has pushed through. My body aches from the tiles, but at least I survived the night without crawling back to that bed.
Stubbornness, I am thy master.
But now, it’s daytime—or close to it—and I need to get the fuck out of this bedroom.
The estate is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen. Security cameras track my movement—Stefan’s invisible eyes following me even when he can’t be bothered to look at me himself.
Coffee. That’s all I’m missing. I just need coffee.
The machine hisses to life, filling the kitchen with the smell of espresso. But instead of leaping for joy like it usually does, my stomach rebels.
I turn and yak in the nearest trash can.
Since when does coffee make me sick?
“Since never,” I mutter, dumping the untouched cup down the sink.
“Talking to yourself now?”
I spin around. Camille stands in the doorway, her victory rolls perfect despite the early hour, carrying a box of pastries.
“How did you get past security?”
“Taras let me in.” She sets the box on the counter. “After I promised not to seduce any more of Stefan’s men. Apparently, I’m a ‘distraction to operations.’”
“Camille—”
“Save it.” She holds up a hand. “I know that face. That’s your ‘I’m fine but actually dying inside’ face. Dispense with the lies and tell me what’s actually going on.”
“There’s nothing to—”
“Olivia Aster, I am not to be trifled with. Either you tell me what happened, or I start making assumptions. Loud assumptions. In front of Stefan’s entire security team.”
I sink onto a barstool. “He made it clear what I am to him.”
“Which is?”
“‘A glorified oven.’ His exact words.”
Camille whistles low. “Harsh. Even for an asshole like him.”
“He’s not—” I stop. Because he is, isn’t he? What is he if not that? “It doesn’t matter what he is. I knew what this arrangement was. I just… forgot.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Camille opens the pastry box, pulling out a chocolate croissant. “You didn’t ‘forget’ anything. You made a calculated decision to save your clinic, and now, you’re having feelings about it.”
“I sold myself, Camille.”
“No, you made a choice. That’s all.” Camille tears off a piece of pastry and offers it to me. “But that’s not really what this is about, is it?”
I look away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, please. You’re not torn up about the surrogacy. You’re torn up about him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She leans forward to make me look at her. “When’s the last time you thought about the clinic? Really thought about it? Because all I see is a woman who can’t stop checking her phone, hoping for a text from a man who just called her an oven.”
My phone sits face-down on the counter. I haven’t checked it once. Because he hasn’t texted.
“It’s complicated.”
“Love always is.”
“I don’t love him.”
“Sure you don’t.” Camille’s voice drips sarcasm. “That’s why you look like someone stole your puppy. That’s why you’re hiding in here instead of walking out that door. That’s why you’re about to throw up on my croissant.”
She’s not wrong. I barely make it to the sink when my stomach revolts again.
Camille holds my hair back while I heave. “Okay, either Safonov is literally toxic, or…”
“Camille.”
“How late are you?”
“Cami—”
“How. Late?”
I rinse my mouth and spit. “Two weeks.”
“Jesus, Liv.”
“It’s stress. The shooting, the pressure, everything. It’s just stress.”
“You’re a doctor, hon. You know better.”
I do. The symptoms are textbook. The timing is perfect. The irony is suffocating.
“Have you told him?” she asks.
“Told him what? That I might be carrying the child he paid for? The one I’m contractually obligated to provide? Oh, gee, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Finally getting his money’s worth from his glorified oven.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t reduce yourself to his worst words.” Camille hands me a paper towel. “You’re more than what he said in anger.”
“Am I? Because I can’t seem to remember what that is anymore.”
“Then let me remind you: You’re Dr. Olivia fucking Aster. You built a clinic from nothing. You help women achieve dreams. You stood up to your mother, to Walsh, to every asshole who tried to break you. One moody Russian douche bag doesn’t erase that.”
“This moody Russian douche bag owns me, Camille. Literally. I signed a contract.”
“Contracts can be broken.”
“Not this one. Not with him.”
“Why not?”
The honest answer sticks in my throat. Because despite everything—the cruelty, the control, the way he discarded me—I don’t want to leave.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“No.” A new voice cuts through the kitchen. “Because you see what he refuses to.”
Elena Safonova stands in the doorway, silver hair gleaming in the early morning light. She looks at me and smiles in sympathy. “It’s a tough day, isn’t it? I can see it on your face.” She looks at Cami. “You, the loud one. Out.”
Camille looks ready to argue, but something in Elena’s face stops her. She squeezes my shoulder. “Call me later, okay?”
When we’re alone, Elena pours herself tea from a pot I hadn’t noticed brewing. “Sit.”
I sit.
“You’re pregnant.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t know.”
“You know.” She sips her tea. “Women always know. The body tells truths the mind tries to deny.”
“It’s too early to be certain,” I insist.
“Certainty is overrated. Tell me, what did my grandson say to make you cry?”
“I haven’t been crying.”
“No? Then the redness around your eyes is allergies?”
I trace the marble counter’s veining. “He reminded me what I am to him.”
“Ah.” Elena nods. “He’s scared.”
“Stefan Safonov doesn’t get scared.”
“Stefan Safonov is terrified every moment of every day,” she corrects. “He hides it well. But underneath is a boy who watched his father destroyed by love.”
“His father killed himself.”
“His father was murdered,” she says. “By his mother. For money and power and a younger man’s bed.” Elena’s eyes glisten.
My stomach turns, and this time, it’s not morning sickness.
“He swore he’d never be his father,” Babushka continues. “Never let anyone close enough to destroy him. Then you arrived.”
“I’m hardly a threat to Stefan.”
“No?” Elena laughs, but it’s sad. “You think he brings every woman to his grandmother’s house? You think he looks at them the way he looks at you when you’re not watching? No. Of course not. Because he doesn’t love them. He loves you.”
“He doesn’t—”
“Yes, malyshka, he does.” Elena reaches across the counter and covers my hand with hers.
Her skin is paper-thin but warm. “There’s a man beneath all the scars, my love.
A damaged man, certainly. A difficult man, absolutely.
But a man, same as any other.” She squeezes gently.
“The question is whether you’re strong enough to wait for him to see it himself. ”
I let my forehead come to rest on the cool counter surface. “I’m so tired of being strong.”
“Then be tired!” she suggests. “Be angry. Be hurt. Be all of the things. But don’t give up. Not yet.”
“Why do you care what I do? It’s not like he needs me.”
She shakes her head. “Everyone needs someone. Even monsters. Maybe even especially monsters.” She stands, joints creaking.
“He’ll come around. Men always do, once they realize what they’ve lost. The smart ones apologize and the proud ones double down.
Stefan… Well, Stefan will probably do something stupidly dramatic that he thinks is romantic but is actually concerning, if I had to guess. ”
Despite everything, I laugh. “That sounds about right.”
“There. Better.” Elena pats my cheek. “Now, eat something.” She pushes the pastry box toward me. This time, the smell doesn’t make me want to puke.
“Elena?” I pause. “What if he never comes around? What if this is all I ever am to him?”
She pauses at the doorway. “Then you take your child and leave. Build your life without him. Show him what he lost. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
“Why not?”
“Because Stefan Safonov has done many terrible things. But the best thing he ever did was fall in love with you. And he knows it.”