Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Anna
A month later.
I gripped the sink and dry-heaved again.
My stomach was completely empty—that half slice of bread from this morning had long since come back up. Now I was just retching bile and acid, bitter enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Water stains splattered across the bathroom mirror, blurring my reflection. I looked up to see a stranger staring back—sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones, skin pale as a corpse.
Just one month, and I'd lost eleven pounds.
Not from dieting. From vomiting up everything I tried to eat.
I turned on the faucet and desperately splashed cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. Ice-cold droplets ran down my cheeks, mixing with tears, all swirling down the drain.
That morning scene flashed through my mind again—waking up in his apartment, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows so bright I couldn't open my eyes. I'd turned to find him still sleeping, that devastatingly handsome face softened in the morning light.
My first reaction hadn't been tenderness. It had been panic.
What had I done? I'd slept with a complete stranger?
I'd crept out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood, limping as I searched for my clothes. My ankle still ached, a reminder of everything that had happened the night before.
After getting dressed, I'd hidden in the bathroom and pulled out my phone with trembling hands.
I had to know who he was.
I typed "Alexander Volkov" into the search bar and hit enter.
The first result hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
"Alexander Volkov. Russian-American mafia boss controlling New York's underground arms trade"
My breath caught.
I clicked the link with shaking fingers, and line after line seared into my vision.
"The Volkov family wields significant power in Russian organized crime..."
"Suspected in multiple violent incidents..."
"Maintains extensive connections throughout political and business circles..."
"Extremely dangerous—public advised to avoid contact..."
There were several grainy photographs—at upscale bars, business functions, outside courthouses. In every shot, he wore that same cold expression while everyone around him watched with a mixture of fear and reverence.
My phone nearly slipped into the toilet.
Mafia boss. Arms trafficking. Violence.
I'd slept with a mob boss.
Terror washed over me like ice water, freezing me to the bone. All that tenderness that had intoxicated me the night before, all those words that had made my heart race—suddenly they felt like veiled threats.
I remembered how effortlessly he'd taken down those three drunks, the coldness that occasionally flickered in his eyes, that aura of danger that kept people at arm's length—none of it had been an act. That was the presence of someone who'd spilled blood, who'd killed.
I had to get out.
Immediately. Before he woke up.
I'd rushed back to the living room and emptied my wallet—a hundred dollars, everything I had left for the month. I'd laid the bills neatly on his dining table and scrawled a note on a piece of paper with shaking hands:
"Thank you for last night. This is for the meds and other stuff. —Anna"
Meds. Other stuff.
Polite enough, distant enough, clear enough—we'd been nothing more than a transaction, and now we were even.
I'd needed to draw a line. Needed him to understand I wanted nothing more to do with him.
After leaving the note, I'd grabbed my bag and taken one last look toward the bedroom.
He'd still been sleeping, breathing peacefully, completely unaware I was about to disappear from his life.
My chest had tightened—though I couldn't understand why. I should have felt relieved to escape such danger, but instead, there was this hollow ache of loss.
But there hadn't been time to analyze it. I'd turned, opened the door, and fled.
In the elevator, I'd leaned against the wall, gasping for air. My phone had buzzed in my bag—maybe he'd woken up, maybe he'd found the note.
I'd turned it off.
Stepping out of the building into the crisp morning air, I'd shivered.
New York's streets had still been quiet in the early dawn, only street cleaners making their rounds.
I'd limped toward the subway station on my injured ankle.
Every step had hurt.
Looking back now, it really had been a stupid, cruel thing to do.
A hundred dollars? I'd thought I could erase that night, erase everything between us, with a handful of bills?
That insulting gesture must have cut him deeply.
But I'd been terrified. Terrified of his world, his violence, terrified I'd get pulled in deeper and deeper until one day I'd end up dead because of him.
So I'd chosen the most hurtful way possible to try to sever all connections.
But now...
I touched my stomach and let out a bitter laugh.
What connections had I severed? The bond between us was literally growing inside my body.
When my editor had called me into his office earlier today, I'd thought I was finally getting promoted. After all, I'd worked myself to the bone this past month—pulling all-nighters, chasing leads until my feet gave out, even spending weekends at the office.
I'd thrown myself into work to forget him, to prove my worth, to get my life back on track.
And what had I gotten for it?
"Anna," my supervisor had said, sitting behind his desk with a greasy smile, "I've been watching your work ethic. But you know how competitive this industry is. If you want that promotion... you'll need to put in some extra 'effort.'"
The way he'd said "effort," his eyes roaming over my body, had made my skin crawl.
"Come to my place tonight. We can have a proper 'discussion' about your future. What do you say?"
I'd refused on the spot.
His expression had transformed instantly from fake friendliness to vicious rage.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Some nobody intern who can't even get through probation, and you're giving me attitude?
I've got news for you—there are a dozen girls just like you waiting for your spot. Ungrateful little bitch!"
He'd screamed at me for ten solid minutes, spittle flying while I stood frozen, feeling my dignity get ground into dust beneath his feet.
Finally, he'd snarled, "Don't bother coming in tomorrow. HR will process your termination."
Walking out of his office, my coworkers had all given me those looks—pity, schadenfreude, and from some of the women, that knowing "I told you so" expression.
No one had said anything, but I'd known exactly what they were thinking.
"Another naive girl who wouldn't play the game."
"In this business, certain sacrifices are just part of the job."
"What did she expect?"
I'd run straight to the bathroom and vomited.
I'd been vomiting ever since.
Now I straightened up at the sink and took a shaky breath. The woman in the mirror looked back with red-rimmed eyes and bloodless lips, ready to collapse at any moment.
But I couldn't collapse.
I still had rent to pay, camera payments to make, and now...
My hand unconsciously pressed against my flat stomach.
Still nothing to feel. But I knew something was quietly taking root there.
I'd been lying to myself for weeks.
Nausea? Just stress.
Exhaustion? Working too hard.
Missed period? Hormonal imbalance from poor nutrition.
But I couldn't lie to myself anymore.
Every symptom pointed to the same terrifying possibility—one I'd been too afraid to even consider.
I took one more look at my haggard reflection, then pushed open the bathroom door.
My coworkers pretended to be busy, but I could feel their stares like needles in my back.
My desk had already been cleared out—obviously my supervisor had been planning this. A cardboard box sat on my chair containing my few personal belongings: a coffee mug, some pens, and that old camera.
I picked up the pathetically light box. Five months as a journalist, and this was all I had to show for it.
"Anna..." one of my female colleagues whispered, genuine sympathy in her voice. "Take care of yourself."
I nodded silently.
Not because I didn't want to speak—I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I'd break down completely.
Carrying my cardboard box out of the building, I squinted against the harsh sunlight. The whole world seemed to be spinning.
People rushed past on the sidewalk, everyone focused on their own lives, no one noticing the young woman with a box who'd just lost everything.
I stood there not knowing where to go.
Back to my apartment? To do what—sit in that moldy room staring at an empty refrigerator?
My feet started moving on their own, carrying me toward the nearest pharmacy.
The store was brightly lit, shelves lined with medications and health products. I found myself in the women's health section, staring at the pregnancy tests.
Expensive ones, cheap ones, pink packages, blue packages.
I grabbed the cheapest option and walked to the checkout counter.
The cashier was a middle-aged woman who glanced at the test, then at me, sympathy flickering in her eyes.
"Do you need a bag?" she asked gently.
I nodded.
She slipped the test into an opaque bag and handed it to me with a soft "Good luck."
I took the bag and hurried out.
Good luck? I almost laughed. If I had any luck, I wouldn't be here.
Back in my apartment, I dropped the cardboard box and went straight to the bathroom.
The cracked toilet, yellowing tiles, and that faucet that never stopped dripping.
I sat down and unwrapped the test, following the instructions with trembling hands.
Then I stared at the little plastic stick.
Five minutes for results. One line meant negative, two lines positive.
I watched the clock, counting every tick of the second hand.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
My heart pounded harder with each passing second.
Four minutes.
Please, I begged silently. Please let it be just one line.
Five minutes.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then looked down.
Two bright red lines.
Clear as day. Unmistakable.
My hands began to shake violently.