29. Sasha
29
SASHA
There’s only so much mac and cheese one woman can eat before she starts to question all her life choices.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on a stack of unopened mail, and the world’s cheapest bowl of lunch steaming on the side table. Again. I’ve officially hit the point where I can make a meal out of canned beans, mustard, and desperation.
This is not where I thought I’d be at twenty-three.
Pregnant, unemployed, and watching online job portals load like I’m waiting for a prophecy.
“Did you check that teaching site I sent you?” Melanie calls from her room.
“Yeah,” I lie.
“You said that yesterday.”
“It was true yesterday too.”
She groans. “Sash, I love you, but you’re going to have to apply to at least one thing before your rent eats both of us.”
She’s not wrong. Rent is due in two weeks. I have some savings. Enough to keep me afloat for maybe a month and a half if I live like a minimalist raccoon. Which, coincidentally, I already do.
I click through another job listing that wants five years of experience and the soul of my unborn child, and slam the laptop shut.
Melanie pokes her head in with a banana in hand. “Please tell me you didn’t apply to become a forklift operator again.”
“That was one time. And I didn’t know they required a license.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re too smart to be broke.”
I snort. “Tell that to capitalism.”
Still, I get up, stretch, and grab my jacket. I need air. Groceries. And some excuse to leave the apartment before I start talking to the stove like it’s my emotional support boyfriend.
The store smells like fake pine and lemon wipes. I shuffle through the aisles with a basket of necessities—bread, peanut butter, a prenatal vitamin bottle I keep staring at like it might change color and tell me what to do.
I’m almost at the checkout when I feel it.
That prickle at the back of my neck.
I glance behind me casually. There’s a man at the far end of the aisle. Ball cap. Jacket zipped to the chin. Normal. Too normal.
I turn back around. No big deal. It’s New York. Everybody’s in a rush and nobody looks where they’re going.
I get in line. Pay in cash. Walk out.
But halfway home, I feel it again.
That sensation like someone’s eyes are on me. Following the rhythm of my footsteps, matching pace. I whirl around, breath caught in my throat?—
Nothing.
Just a woman pulling a toddler out of a taxi. A guy unloading cases of water into a bodega. Nobody looking at me.
I tell myself it’s stress.
The hormones.
The paranoia of being in over my head.
But I still walk a little faster.
And when I get home, I check the locks twice.
Back in the apartment, Melanie’s working on her laptop. She barely looks up. “That was quick.”
“Didn’t want to buy too much,” I say. “Trying to stretch the savings.”
She eyes the tiny bag in my hand. “That’s not groceries, it’s emotional support carbs.”
“Same thing,” I mutter, tossing the bag onto the counter.
Later, in the quiet of my room, I lie on my bed and let my hand rest over my stomach. It’s still early. Barely showing. But I know the baby’s there.
* * *
The following week, something weird happens.
I get an email.
It shows up in my inbox just after midnight.
No subject. No sender name. Just a string of random numbers for the email address. For a second, I think it’s spam. The kind that wants to sell me fake crypto or Russian brides.
But there’s no link. No attachment. Just one line.
You’re not as hidden as you think.
I blink at it, reread it twice, then slam my laptop shut like that’ll make it disappear.
My skin prickles.
It’s vague enough to be nothing.
It’s also pointed enough to mean everything.
I pace around the apartment, mentally scrolling through all the possible explanations. A prank? A wrong email? A spammy phishing attempt?
But deep down, I know.
This wasn’t random.
I think about texting Damien. My thumb hovers over Roman’s number—still saved from that business card Damien slipped me weeks ago.
And then I put my phone down.
If I contact him, he’ll show up. And I can’t handle that. Not now. Not when I’m barely holding myself together.
Ryan shows up at my apartment the next afternoon like he’s starring in some low-budget rom-com. He even brings Thai food and says something annoyingly sweet like, “You seem like someone who needs extra noodles.”
I should tell him to leave. But he’s been texting me for the last few weeks, and talking to him actually makes me feel better. He wants to be just friends, and I believe him.
I really need friends right now.
I eat two spring rolls and sit next to him on the couch like I’m not actively unraveling.
He talks about work—how soul-sucking his new department is, how the coffee tastes like burnt sadness—and I laugh. I laugh because for ten minutes, I forget the creepy email and the mess I’ve made of my life.
And that’s when I say it.
“I’m pregnant.”
It drops out of my mouth like a brick.
He freezes, pad thai halfway to his mouth.
“Oh,” he says after a second. “Wow. Okay. That’s…congratulations?”
“I guess.”
His expression shifts. “Does he know?”
“Who?”
“Damien,” he says, like I don’t need to pretend.
“No.” I shake my head. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
He nods slowly. “That’s your choice.”
“I mean it, Ryan. Don’t tell him.”
“I won’t,” he says, his voice soft and even. “Of course I won’t.”
* * *
A week later, I get an email from my old supervisor at Zaitsev Industries.
Hey Sasha,
Could you swing by the office sometime this week to complete your relieving paperwork? Should only take a few minutes.
—Mark
Ugh.
I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to run into anyone. Especially not Damien.
But I know I need to tie up the loose ends. And I could use the final paycheck.
So I go. Hoodie up, low cap, head down. Get in, get out, breathe minimal air.
Before I leave the building, I pull out my phone and text Ryan.
It’s instinct more than anything. He’s been kind these past few weeks, checking in on me when no one else did. The one person who never made me feel like a ticking time bomb.
Me: Hey I’m dropping by the office for some paperwork. Want to grab lunch?
The reply comes fast.
Ryan: Absolutely, and later maybe we can go to that Indian restaurant I told you about months ago.
I smile, a little warmth blooming in my chest. It’s…nice. That’s all. Just simple and nice.
The formalities are over quicker than I expect it to be. They’ve cleaned out my desk for me so I don’t need to bother with that. Thankfully, I don’t run into Damien again.
I take the side hallway shortcut toward the exit elevators, my mind already drifting to the idea of food, real food, maybe even a milkshake. But as I turn the corner near the old conference rooms, I hear a voice that stops me in my tracks.
I stop short behind the half-open frosted glass doors. I know that voice.
Nina.
And the other one? Ryan.
I freeze.
My brain doesn’t process it at first—Ryan? What would he be doing here?
I peek through the gap between the door and the frame, heart thudding.
They’re standing together near the window, backs partially to me. Nina has her arms crossed, but she’s smiling. Ryan’s leaning slightly toward her, relaxed, like they’ve done this before.
There’s nothing flirty or romantic. But they know each other. Way too well.
“Everything’s lining up,” she says. “We just need her to stay where she is a little longer.”
“She will,” Ryan replies. “She trusts me.”
That sentence lands like a punch to the gut.
I feel everything in me go still. The breath knocked out of me without a sound.
They’re talking about me.
They have to be.
“She mentioned anything to anyone else?” Nina asks, a little too casual.
“No. She’s keeping quiet. If anything changes, I’ll know.”
I press a hand to my mouth.
It’s like the ground shifts beneath me.
Ryan—who’s been checking in, who I cried in front of, who knows I’m pregnant—he’s working with her?
With Nina?
Ryan nods. “Just say when.”
“Soon,” Nina replies. “We need to let it play out.”
Let what play out?
My mouth goes dry.
They don’t see me. They don’t know I’m here. But I can’t move. My legs are stone. My fingers go cold even though I’m sweating.
I told Damien.
I told him weeks ago I didn’t trust Nina, that she was too smooth, too convenient. And now here she is. Whispering strategy with the one person I’ve let in.
The one person who’s been inside my apartment.
Who I told about the baby.
Who I gave a key to last week so he could “drop by and check in.”
My stomach lurches.
Ryan.
And Nina? She must be working with Damien’s enemies.
Oh my God.
I back away slowly from the door, every breath shallow and tight. My fingers are shaking as I clutch my phone.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t believe this.
How long has he known her?
How long has he been playing me?
I stumble down the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, not caring who sees. I need to get out. I need to get home. No. Not home. Not anymore.
I need to run.
The second I hit the sidewalk, I don’t stop.
Not until I’m a block away from the building, my back pressed to the side of a pharmacy and my breath coming out in short, uneven bursts. My fingers tremble as I open my phone.
I scroll past Damien’s name.
And text the number he gave me weeks ago.
Me: Roman. I need help.
Four words. That’s all I can manage.
And I hate that I’m doing this.
I hate that Damien somehow still casts a shadow over my life, even now.
But I’m scared. And right now, that’s bigger than my pride.
Barely five minutes pass before a sleek black car pulls up to the curb.
Roman.
Of course it’s Roman.
I hesitate only for a second before opening the passenger door and sliding in.
He doesn’t say anything right away, just checks the mirrors and pulls back into traffic like he’s doing a routine errand and not responding to what might be a full-blown emergency.
I buckle my seat belt. “You got here fast.”
Roman glances sideways, but his expression is unreadable. “You texted.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He shrugs. “I was nearby.”
I narrow my eyes. “How nearby?”
Another shrug. “Close enough.”
It clicks. The creeping feeling I’ve had for days—the one I’ve been chalking up to anxiety and hormones and general paranoia.
“You’ve been watching me.” I say it flatly.
Roman doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even blink.
And that silence says everything.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, leaning back in my seat. “Damien’s had your people watching me this entire time.”
Roman’s voice is calm, steady. “He wanted you safe.”
“I didn’t ask to be babysat.”
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t need it.”
I shoot him a look. “That’s not your call to make.”
He doesn’t reply immediately. We roll through a yellow light, the low hum of the car the only sound between us.
“I’m just doing my job,” he says finally. “And Damien’s serious about keeping you alive. Whether or not you like how he’s doing it.”
My throat tightens, anger and something softer swirling together. I’m pissed. I’m touched. I’m scared. And underneath it all…I’m exhausted.
“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” I say quietly.
Roman doesn’t give me platitudes. Doesn’t offer me comfort. Just drives.
We drive for over an hour.
Out of the city, past the suburbs, into long stretches of nothing—just highway and shadows and the occasional gas station that looks like a horror movie set. The sun’s setting now, casting streaks of red across the windshield, and I’m starting to get that feeling. The one that starts in your gut before it makes it to your brain.
Something’s wrong.
I try to keep calm. Rational. Maybe Damien doesn’t want me in the city. Maybe Roman’s under orders to take me somewhere safer, more remote. But why not the estate?
I glance sideways. Roman’s jaw is tight, his hands still on the wheel, knuckles white. He hasn’t said a word in half an hour.
I clear my throat. “So…where exactly are we going?”
No answer.
“Roman?”
Nothing.
I shift in my seat. “I swear to God, if you’re taking me back to Damien’s?—”
“We’re not going to the estate.”
His voice is clipped. Final.
I blink. “Okay. Then where?—?”
The car jerks slightly as it pulls off the highway onto a narrow road that disappears into thick trees. Gravel crunches under the tires. There’s nothing around. No lights. No buildings. Just woods and an eerie kind of silence.
And then Roman slows to a stop.
Middle of nowhere.
“What are we doing?” I ask, pulse already picking up.
“Get out.”
I laugh, but it comes out nervous. “What?”
Roman turns toward me, eyes cold. Unfamiliar. And that’s when I see it—the gleam of metal in his lap.
A gun.
I freeze.
“Out. Now.”
I don’t move. “Roman?—”
He snatches the phone from my hand and removes the SIM card before I can even process what’s happening.
I stare at it. At him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
His smile is cruel. Foreign. “You’re just too gullible, Sasha.”
My body goes cold all at once.
“You think Damien’s the only one who’s been keeping tabs on you? Jesus.” He chuckles, low and bitter. “You really are just a pretty little thing with no clue what you’ve walked into.”
I’m out of the car before I even realize it. He yanks the door open wider, gun visible now, and I step back instinctively, my boots crunching on gravel.
The wind rustles through the trees. My breath comes in shallow bursts.
And then I hear it.
Another voice. Smooth. Calm. Too calm.
“Hello, Sasha.”
I whirl around.
There’s a man standing at the edge of the clearing, just beyond the line of trees. He’s tall, built like someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed. Dressed in black. Not flashy, not sloppy—meticulous. Like everything about him is intentional.
Dark eyes. Closely cropped hair. A scar cutting through the left side of his jaw, subtle but unmistakable. He smiles like he’s enjoying every second of this.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he says, taking a few slow steps forward. “And your baby.”
My stomach drops.
“I’m Lev.”