Chapter 11
CLARA
When I wake up and reach over, Dmitri is gone.
Not that I expected him to stick around. He doesn't seem the type to snuggle before a bagel run. In fact, I was surprised he stayed at all, instead of immediately getting out of bed after sex and leaving. But that doesn't mean there isn't still a faint feeling of disappointment.
It's better this way, anyway. I can't form any kind of attachment to Dmitri.
He is my boss first, second, and third. That's all he can be, and my body is just going to have to learn that.
I'm going to have to figure out how to hold the line when he is around.
Moments like last night cannot happen again.
I get up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Unexpectedly, I feel a wave of nausea, and I have to stay there for a moment.
I have been feeling like this on and off lately, and I really don't know what it’s about.
Could it be some kind of fallout from my messy breakup with Dean?
Or is this some sort of new anxiety disorder rearing its ugly head?
I always feel nervous before I go into a courtroom, and I wonder if this is a delayed reaction to yesterday's chaos.
I manage to swallow the nausea down, stand up, and get ready for the day. As I enter the kitchen, I see a pot of freshly brewed coffee waiting for me. Beneath the mug set beside is a note, scrawled quickly on a notepad I got with a free mailer.
The happy cartoon penguin is in stark contrast to the sharp, no-nonsense message scrawled underneath the bubble letters.
I have to get to work. I'd better see you in the office today. You agreed to be my employee, just as I agreed to be your employer. I don't like it when people go back on their word.
I roll my eyes as I crumple the piece of paper up into a tight ball and toss it into the trash can, thinking to myself: Real romantic. Super-sexy note. Makes me want to jump all over you.
The worst part is that despite the coldness, that’s exactly what I want to do. I'm craving what only Dmitri can give me, craving it badly enough that the pulse is back between my thighs, even as my stomach continues to churn.
I throw up twice while I'm getting ready.
It can't be the stomach flu—I don't feel sick and I don't have a temperature—none of the hallmarks of a stomach bug or food poisoning.
I'm not glued to the toilet, and I'm still able to function.
I don't think I’ll be putting my coworkers at risk if I go into the office.
I'm not letting that note get the best of me, nor am I going to let Dmitri win by not showing up for work.
Screw him and his stupid business, his stupid lies, and his stupid secret life.
If I'm going to do this, it's going to be on my terms. I absolutely refuse to be controlled by another man.
If I am there, it's because I want to be.
And he better not drag me into anything illegal and screw up my future career either. I warned him about that last night.
I skip breakfast but grab a piece of dry toast on my way out, just in case. Then I swing by the bodega on the corner to grab some ginger ale, which helps me through the train ride to work.
I throw up twice more once I get there, but I'm feeling better by mid-afternoon. I manage to keep a small amount of food in me, which helps. And the best part is, I don't see Dmitri all day.
I don't feel sick again until I'm on my way home. I manage to make it to my apartment, dumping everything by the door and sprinting to the bathroom just in time.
When I look up, I see Emily hovering in the bathroom doorway, a concerned frown on her face.
“I have a bottle of ginger ale in my purse.” I wave in the direction of my front door. “Can you get it for me, please?”
My best friend disappears, then comes back clutching two bottles of ginger ale—the nearly empty one and the full one.
“Why are you downing ginger ale? If you're that sick, why didn't you stay home today?”
“I'm not sick.” I spit into the toilet bowl, wipe my mouth off with toilet paper, and sit back against the cabinet, breathing hard.
Emily sinks to the floor across from me, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees.
“Well, this takes me back to college,” I manage, attempting a lame joke.
“Unless you've been drinking with a bunch of idiot frat boys, this is not like college.”
“And yet, here you are, sitting with me while I throw up, just like old times.”
“You're not day drinking, are you?” A line forms between Emily's eyes as she frowns again. “I know yesterday was super rough and you had to deal with Dean, but—”
“I'm not day drinking, Em. Last time I had anything to drink was that Bloody Mary after those awful, themed shots at your bachelorette party.”
“Oh, come on, they weren't that bad.”
“Yeah, they were. I'm not sure I ever want to drink again. They were awful.” I make a face, and Emily has to bite back a smile.
“They were not awful. I tasted every one of them, and I thought they were delicious.”
“Okay, you keep believing that.”
Emily sticks her tongue out at me, and I have to laugh before changing position and letting my head fall back against the sink cabinet. I close my eyes for a moment.
“Are you sure you're okay?” she asks. “All joking aside, your stomach was the steadiest in the entire sorority. You were usually the one holding my hair back while I puked.”
“I'm fine,” I assure my best friend. “I love my new job. My nerves have just been on edge lately. I'm fine.”
“What do you mean by lately?” Emily sounds suspicious, and when I open my eyes, she's peering at me with an odd look.
“Lately, as in, lately. I don't know how long.”
“Are you saying you've been throwing up before today?”
“Not really throwing up, more like nauseous. Again, it's just nerves. It's a new job and it's stressful, and Dean won't leave me alone. It's probably just some delayed response to our breakup. You yourself said I should see a therapist after everything that happened.”
I expect Emily to wholeheartedly agree. She's been pushing me to see a therapist about what happened during my relationship with Dean. But instead, she continues to watch me.
“What?” I finally ask, annoyed at the intensity of her stare.
“My bachelorette party was,” she pauses as she counts in her head and on her fingers, “eleven weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I know. We had it early because Katya was going to be out of the country closer to the wedding. Remember? You and I argued about the date.”
“You're missing the point, Clara. My bachelorette party was eleven weeks ago. You're saying you've been feeling sick—”
“Since I started the new job,” I finish for her, slowly enunciating each word. Why can't she get that it's just stress?
“The job you've been working at for approximately two weeks, right? That’s nine weeks. Morning sickness usually starts around week seven and gets worse around week nine or ten.”
I can't help the laugh that bursts out of me. “Morning sickness? Really? Emily, are you nuts? I know your sister is an OB/GYN, but not everything is pregnancy-related.”
She doesn't say a word or try to counter what I just said. She only stares at me with that look on her face.
That's when I feel a shiver run down my spine.
“Emily, no. No way. That's impossible.” But my denial doesn't have quite the conviction that it had before.
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because I'm on birth control. The same one that we went together to get at the clinic when we were in college. The same one that both of us are still on. That’s why.”
So why does it seem more probable the more I deny it?
“Wait, didn't the pharmacy have a mix-up? I remember you called me frustrated because they didn't have it in stock, and you were annoyed because that was going to throw off your entire month, if you had to wait to get it. Did you get it on time, or not?”
I bite my lower lip, suddenly remembering with great clarity that exact conversation.
It happened just before I got a call from a client who took all my attention away.
I didn’t get my prescription refilled for another week because I had to go to a different pharmacy to remedy the situation.
I hadn't thought anything of it in the moment because I had sworn off men and relationships when I ended it with Dean, and I was full steam ahead on that until—
Until the night of Emily's bachelorette party.
“No,” I draw the word out in a weak denial, fear clenching my insides. “No, that can't be it. No, no, no, no! That can't be it.”
Emily's eyes widen. “Shit.”
We walk to the bodega together in complete silence. I grab more ginger ale and some crackers while she grabs two pregnancy tests I can't bring myself to pick up.
We walk back to my apartment in silence again, bundled against the cold and the chill of the possibility facing me when we get back.
We spend the next forty-five minutes avoiding the elephant in the room.
I fill her in on more on the details about what happened at the Smirnov Corporation headquarters and at the police station.
I decided not to tell my best friend the identity of the company's owner, but now I'm thinking that might have been a mistake.
When it grows silent, I know it’s time to take the test. I stand outside the bathroom door, the box clutched in my hands feeling as heavy as cement.
“What if I just don't take it and see what happens? There's a good chance it's just nerves.”
Emily gets up and puts a soft hand on my shoulder, her expression understanding and kind, which I find annoying under the circumstances.
“You need to know one way or the other. If you are, you have choices and decisions to make. It’s better that you find out now.
These are critical development weeks. You have to make sure you have the right levels of folate and iron, and your hormones are—”
“Alright, I get it,” I grit out and go into the bathroom.
Emily and I end up sitting on the bathroom floor again, waiting, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wants to escape. We don't talk; we just count down the five minutes that seem to last forever.
When the timer goes off, I'm staring at two lines.
“Fuck.” Emily is peering down at the test with me. “Those lines are really, really bright.”
I can't take my eyes away from the pink double lines that tell me I’m pregnant.
An hour ago, my life was on track, and the toughest decision I had to make was whether to stay at my job or find a new one.
The longer I stare at those lines, the faster my heart beats and the harder my stomach clenches. I think about all the ways this can go wrong, how having a child with a known Russian mob boss can destroy my life.
My breath comes faster and faster, my chest growing heavier and tighter, until I can barely breathe.
“Hey. Hey, Clara, look at me.” Emily has a hand on both of my shoulders. “You're having a panic attack. Just breathe. Breathe, Clara.”
My legs give out and I sink to the floor, the tile cool against my cheek, grounding me. My breathing soon slows, though the panic and anxiety remain as I stare at the dusty space under the cabinet.
“Who's the father?” Emily asks. “Please tell me it’s not Dean.”
“It most definitely is not Dean.”
Emily lets out a sigh of relief, then chuckles. “Thank goodness for small miracles.”
But I feel like curling up into a ball as I tell her, “It’s not Dean. It’s worse, so much worse.”
“What do you mean?” I don’t have to look at my best friend to hear the uneasiness in her tone.
“You said it yourself. It's that guy from the night of your bachelorette party. He's the only one I've slept with.”
“Oh, crap. And you still don't know his name or anything about him? I'm sure he's gone from the hotel by now. Listen, you're not going to raise this baby alone. I'm going to be right here with you—”
I push myself up and turn to face my best friend, stopping her from speaking.
“Emily, there's something I haven’t told you. The guy in the penthouse I slept with? He's my boss. I had no idea when I applied for the job, but he owns the company I now work for.”
“Your boss?” Emily's brow knits in confusion.
I'm trying to be patient, but it's hard. “Yes. His name is Dmitri Smirnov. He’s the guy I slept with that night.”
Emily's eyes widen until I don't think they can get any larger.
“Holy shit, Clara. The Dmitri Smirnov? The guy Dean's unit has been investigating for suspicion of being a Russian mob boss?”
I cringe. “It sounds so terrible when you say it that way.”
But it is terrible.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Hurt flashes across her face.
“Because I was embarrassed. This guy has some sort of power over me. My knees get weak whenever I’m around him. It's precisely what I didn't want to happen after Dean. Where the hell did my self-respect go? I'm not the kind of person to hook up with random strangers.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall. This is bad. This is really bad.
“What am I going to do?” The words come out with a soft wail, because I genuinely have no idea what I'm going to do.
Emily doesn't have any answers for me. Instead, she pulls me in for a hug, squeezing me tightly, letting me know she's there.
“We'll figure it out. We always do. And I'm right here with you every step of the way.”
I squeeze her back, but I don't say anything. I really hope she’s right about us figuring it out.
I'm just not so sure this time. She and I got into a lot of stuff back in college and have been through a lot since.
But this? This is the worst trouble I've ever found myself in, and I have a feeling I have no idea just how bad it can get.