Chapter Thirty
Stella
Sunlight streams through the French doors, making my head throb.
I tear my eyes away from the windows and reach across the sheets, finding only cold emptiness where Aleksei’s warmth should be.
Was it just another dream?
The pleasant ache between my legs suggests otherwise.
I press my palm against my forehead, willing the headache to go away. The room spins slightly as I sit up, my stomach growling in protest of missed meals.
Shit.
I’m naked.
Memories of last night flash through my mind — his gentle kisses, tender touches, so different from when we’d been together before. He’s always been so aloof. Last night was… different.
“ Zaychik ,” he called me. I remember that from when I was a kid. Little rabbit. The endearment echoes in my mind.
Did I make that up too?
My reflection in the ornate mirror shows tangled hair and kiss-bruised lips. Real then. The marks on my neck remove any doubt. I touch them gently, remembering the careful way he held me after, so at odds with what I’ve come to expect from him.
“You smell like sex,” Boyana pipes.
“Will you shut up?” I grumble. But she’s right. A shower would be a good idea.
I cross the room to the door on the other side that opens into a bathroom. It’s huge and ostentatious, just like the rest of the place. I take in the gleaming gold taps and marble fittings before moving to the shower and stepping into the cubicle.
The water hits me in a gentle rainfall, and I sigh as I soap off with the jasmine-scented body wash I find on the counter.
Minutes later, fragrant and refreshed, I step out and wrap myself in a fluffy towel before returning to the bedroom.
There’s a small tea station on the dresser; a kettle with a tea cup and a selection of herbal teas.
I pick out a soothing chamomile and brew myself a cup, sinking onto the dresser seat.
It doesn’t soothe me. How could it? My life just turned upside down.
My stomach growls again, louder this time. I need to move, to find food, to prove to myself I’m not actually trapped in some elaborate fantasy.
Toweling myself dry, I take another look around. The silk robe draped over a nearby chair wasn’t there yesterday — another sign of his presence, or the staff’s efficiency? I wrap it around myself, the material whispering against my skin as I approach the bedroom door.
My hand hesitates on the handle. Am I allowed to wander?
The growing hunger makes the decision for me. I swing the door open. Then stop short with a yelp. Imelda is standing on the other side with a tray.
“Oh! I…I…” I struggle to find my wits.
“Breakfast, Miss Stella.” She nods down at the tray before stepping past me into the room.
I stare at the tray Imelda sets on the small table beside the windows — two small poached eggs, half a grapefruit, and plain toast. My stomach growls in protest.
“Is this all?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Mr. Tarasov’s orders. Good food for baby.” She turns to leave, clearly not sympathetic.
I sink into the chair, poking at one of the eggs with my fork. The yolk breaks, running across the plate in a sad yellow stream. After last night’s… activities, I need more than this bird food.
“He’s trying to control your weight,” Boyana whispers.
My hand clenches around the fork. No. I refuse to let that man dictate my eating habits. I wolf the eggs down, followed by the toast, and then scoop out the grapefruit and eat it hungrily. The meal barely touches sides.
I wait until I’m sure there’s no sound from outside before slipping out of the room. The hallway stretches in both directions, but I catch a whiff of coffee from the right. There’s a kitchen somewhere nearby. I can smell it.
My stomach growls again. I follow the scent, letting my nostrils guide me. It’s not long before I find what I’m looking for.
The kitchen is enormous, all gleaming stainless steel and pristine white surfaces. I trail my fingers along the marble countertop, taking in the professional-grade equipment. Three ovens, a massive gas range, and more appliances than I can name line the walls.
There’s a plate of apple danishes on the counter.
“Halle-fucking-lujah!” says Boyana.
I grab one, taking a hungry bite from the sweet flaky pastry.
“God, that’s good,” I groan around it. I glance around, taking in the rest of the room.
My eyes catch on something unexpected — a medical-grade refrigerator in the corner, its steel surface standing out against the white cabinetry. The scientist in me perks up at the sight of the specialized unit.
Hastily eating a few more bites of my pastry, I set it down and glance over my shoulder before approaching. The digital display shows a perfect 2°C temperature maintenance. Definitely not for storing leftovers.
Opening the door sends a wave of cold air across my face. Rows of medications fill the shelves, each one precisely labeled and organized. My breath catches as I spot the distinctive packaging of Gabapentin.
That’s for neurological disorders. What’s it doing here?
“Looking for something?”
I jump, slamming the fridge door shut. A woman stands in the doorway, her elegant posture a stark contrast to my guilty stance. Her dark eyes pin me in place, assessing and cold.
My heart is thundering as I face the woman. Her tailored suit and perfect poise make me painfully aware of my silk robe and damp hair.
“I was just…” The words stick in my throat.
“Who the fuck is she?” Boyana’s voice is strident.
Whoever she is, she clearly belongs here. Like the lady of the house. Like… a wife.
Oh God.
He’s married.
My appetite disappears in a rush, replaced by the familiar morning nausea.
Of course, Aleksei has a partner. A sophisticated, beautiful woman who probably doesn’t raid kitchens in her sleepwear. And what about that angry woman at the party? There seemed to be something between them too.
“Maybe it’s an open marriage. Rich guys like him do weird shit like that all the time,” Boyana chimes in, because that’s the way her twisted mind works.
Seriously, Boyana?
“Just what?” the woman presses, looking at me strangely. Her accent matches Aleksei’s, her tone sharp as cut glass. “Snooping through private medical supplies?”
“No! I mean, yes, but…” I wrap my arms around myself, the robe offering little protection from her icy stare. “I have a background in neuroscience. The names caught my attention. I shouldn’t have—”
“Miss Diana.” Imelda bustles in with fresh coffee. “Your morning tea is ready in the study.”
“Thank you, Imelda.” Diana’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. “I see our guest has made alternative breakfast arrangements.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I spot crumbs from the danish on my robe. “The portions were quite small…”
“ Bozhe moy .” Diana pinches the bridge of her nose. “My brother and his bullshit.”
Brother?
She’s his sister!
Oh, thank God!
Relief floods me. The thought of having a baby with a married man is too much to add to my growing list of grievances.
It would be beyond fucked up. And now that I’m looking at her, the resemblance is obvious: same dark eyes, same firm set to her jaw.
Like a female version of him. Except her hair is a rich, dark shade of auburn where his is black.
Diana’s voice cuts through my relief like a blade. “Stealing food is beneath even common thieves. I expected better from someone carrying my brother’s child.”
My fingers clutch the silk robe tighter. “I wasn’t stealing—”
“Those pastries are for the staff’s breakfast.” She gestures to the half-eaten danish on the counter. “And rifling through private medical supplies? Unacceptable.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” The words come out small and pathetic.
“Clearly.” Her perfectly manicured nail taps against the marble counter. “Your meals are specifically planned for optimal prenatal nutrition. If you have concerns about portions, speak with the staff. Don’t skulk around like a common vor .”
Heat burns across my face. I want to defend myself, explain about the hunger and curiosity, but her stern presence reduces me to feeling like a scolded child.
“Return to your room.” She turns away, dismissing me. “Imelda will bring you a proper mid-morning snack at ten.”
I shuffle backward, shame making my movements clumsy. The kitchen’s warmth gives way to the cool hallway as I retreat, my bare feet silent on the cool floor.
Back in my room, I sink onto the bed, humiliation settling over me like a heavy blanket.
“That went well,” Boyana quips.
“Shut up.” I press my palms against my burning cheeks. “Just… shut up.”
The room suddenly feels even more confining. The elegant furnishings mock my graceless morning adventure.
I drift back to the window, trying to forget my moment of shame. As I stare out, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up the circular drive, its dark windows gleaming in the morning sun.
The car door opens, and my brow furrows as recognition sinks in.
It’s the woman from the party. The one whose dress I ruined.
Who looked at me like dirt under her expensive shoes.
Even from here, I can see the perfection of her appearance — not a hair out of place from her sleek black bob, her cream designer suit oozing class.
She slides out of the vehicle, gliding across the courtyard to the stairs like a ramp model.
My fingers press against the cool glass as I watch her.
“Well, this is awkward,” Boyana quips. “Your baby daddy’s girlfriend just showed up.”
I step back from the window, afraid she’ll look up and catch me gawping at her. She clearly belongs in this world of mind-numbing wealth and unthinkable power. I’m just… me. The event planner who got knocked up by a man who is apparently involved with someone else.
She pauses at the front steps, smoothing her immaculate hair with manicured fingers. The sunlight catches on a massive diamond ring.
My stomach lurches, and this time it’s not morning sickness.
That’s an engagement ring.
And she’s walking into his side of the mansion as if she owns the place.
What the hell is going on here?
I move back to the window, unable to look away as she floats up the steps.
Her movements are too perfect, like a mechanical doll wound up tight.
Now that I’m really looking, I can see all the work she’s had done — the sharp cut of her nose job, the dramatic cat-eye lift at the corners of her eyes, lips plumped just to the edge of natural.
And there’s no way that God gave her those boobs.
My fingers drift to my own face in the window’s reflection. No fillers, no Botox, just the slight darkness under my eyes from morning sickness and worry. My brown hair falls in natural waves, nothing like her precision-cut black bob.
I glance down at my borrowed silk robe, then back at her designer outfit. The contrast couldn’t be more stark. She looks like a beauty queen and I’m just plain Stella.
“At least your tits are real,” Boyana chirps.
I ignore her, but my eyes drift back to that perfectly rounded chest. Definitely augmented, like everything else about her. She’s had herself sculpted into some ideal of perfection, while I…
My hand dips to my still-flat stomach. Soon I’ll be swollen and stretched, getting bigger while she maintains her artificial perfection. The thought makes my throat tight.
What was Aleksei thinking, choosing someone like me for even one night when he has… that?
The engagement ring on her finger catches the sun again, sending rainbow prisms across the driveway.
I sink onto the window seat, my fingers absently tracing patterns on the glass. The pristine driveway where the woman just strutted past now feels like a barrier between two worlds — hers of polished perfection, and whatever this limbo I’m trapped in is supposed to be.
My belly growls again, the meager breakfast and stolen danish doing little to satisfy my growing appetite. But after Diana’s scolding, I can’t bring myself to venture out again. And the thought of running into that woman while I’m dressed like this makes me physically ill.
Everything about this situation feels wrong. I’m locked away in the Left Wing like some dirty secret while his fiancée waltzes through the front door.
“Maybe that’s exactly what you are,” Boyana whispers. “A dirty little secret with his baby in your belly.”
“Stop it,” I mutter, but I don’t sound convincing. She’s right. What else could I be? Is this what I’d been reduced to? A vessel to carry the child of a Russian mafia boss because Miss Perfect Tits down there won’t have stretchmarks on her belly?
My hand is on my stomach again. This baby complicates everything. What place could we possibly have in Aleksei’s world of perfect fiancées and mansion wings?
For so many reasons, I don’t belong here.