Chapter 15 – Barbara
Consciousness came back in pieces.
First, the feeling of crisp white sheets against my skin, then the smell—antiseptic and something medicinal that made my nose wrinkle. Then the sounds—distant beeping, soft footsteps, the hum of machinery that spoke of hospitals and life support and people clinging to existence.
I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt like they’d been weighted down with stones. Everything hurt, like my body was wrapped in cotton and pain was trying to break through, but couldn’t quite manage it. Drugs, probably. Good drugs, given how floaty everything felt.
My throat was raw. Each breath came with a dull ache that radiated from my chest outward. And my head—God, my head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and then put it back together wrong.
Was I alive?
The question seemed important, but I couldn’t quite remember why. Couldn’t quite remember what had happened to make me uncertain about something so fundamental.
Then a warm hand wrapped around mine. Callused fingers intertwining with my own, squeezing gently like they were afraid I might break if they held too tight.
I knew those hands.
I forced my eyes open, blinking against fluorescent lights that felt too bright, too harsh. The ceiling above me was white tile with those industrial light fixtures. Definitely a hospital then. Definitely alive, unless heaven had really terrible interior design.
“Barbara.”
His voice cut through the fog in my head. I turned toward the sound, and there he was.
Kirill.
Sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, his blue eyes bloodshot and intense, his hair disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. He looked exhausted. Wrecked. And absolutely furious.
“What the fuck were you doing there?” The words came out rough, barely controlled. “Who did that to you?”
The questions hit me like physical blows, and suddenly I remembered. The abandoned building. Sebastian. The money. The push. The rock. The blood.
He killed her.
The confession. The truth I’d spent years not knowing. The horrible, devastating reality that my mother hadn’t abandoned me; she’d been murdered. By the same man who’d just left me to die in my own blood.
“He….” The word came out as barely a whisper, my throat protesting even that small sound. “He killed her.”
Kirill’s whole body tensed. I felt it through his hand still wrapped around mine, felt the way every muscle went rigid, the way his breathing changed. Controlled fury radiating off him in waves.
I couldn’t stay sitting up. Couldn’t maintain the distance. My body moved without conscious thought, leaning forward, seeking shelter. Seeking safety in the only place that had ever felt remotely safe in the past few weeks.
I buried my face in his chest, and he wrapped his arms around me without hesitation.
No questions. No demands for clarification. Just solid warmth and the steady beat of his heart against my ear and arms that held me like I was something precious instead of broken.
“You’re safe.” His voice rumbled through his chest, low and certain. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me now.”
The words broke something inside me. Some dam I’d been holding in place for five years finally cracked, and everything came pouring out. Not tears—I was too dehydrated for that—just shaking. Trembling in his arms while he held me together.
His hand moved to my back, rubbing small circles with a gentleness I didn’t know he possessed. Slow, soothing movements that gradually brought my breathing back under control. That made the shaking subside from earthquake to tremor.
When I could finally breathe normally again, he slowly pulled back. Just enough to see my face. Just enough to reach for something on the bedside table.
“Here.” He brought a cup of water to my lips, one hand supporting the back of my head with careful precision. “Small sips.”
I obeyed, too tired to argue, too grateful to protest. The water felt like sandpaper going down my raw throat, but it was also the best thing I’d ever tasted. Cool and clean and real in a way nothing else felt right now.
A few shaky sips, and he pulled the cup away, helping me lean back against the pillows that had been propped up behind me. The movement made my head swim, made the room tilt slightly, but his hand stayed on my shoulder until everything stabilized.
“Tell me.” It wasn’t a command, not quite. More like a plea. “Tell me what happened. What Sebastian did to you.”
I looked at him, at those intense blue eyes that wanted so desperately to fix everything, to understand everything, to protect me from everything. And I wanted to tell him. Wanted to let it all spill out and let him carry some of the weight I’d been holding alone.
But I couldn’t.
Not yet. Not when telling him meant reliving every moment in that abandoned building, every confession Sebastian had screamed, every drop of blood that had pooled beneath my head.
“I can’t.” The words came out broken, barely a whisper. “I’m not…I can’t talk about it yet.”
Kirill’s jaw clenched, frustration and concern warring on his face. “Barbara—”
“Please.” I pulled back slightly, needing space even though his arms felt like the only safe place in the world. “Not yet. I just…I need time.”
“Time for what?” His voice was gentle but persistent. “Time to process? Time to trust me? Time to—”
“Time to figure out how to say the words without falling apart.” The honesty surprised even me. “Everything that happened, what he did, what he said, it’s too much. Too raw. I can barely think about it without wanting to….” I stopped, unable to finish.
He studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him struggling with it. Wanting to push because that’s what made sense tactically. Wanting answers because answers meant he could plan, could protect, could fix.
But there was also understanding there. Recognition that some wounds were too fresh to touch.
“Okay.” The word came out reluctant but sincere. “Not yet. But Barbara—” He took my hand again, his thumb rubbing circles on my palm. “Eventually. Eventually, you’re going to have to let someone help carry this.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready. Even though the thought of voicing what Sebastian had confessed—about my mother, about the murder, about years of believing I was unwanted—made me sick to my stomach.
We sat in silence for a moment, and I could see him trying to piece together what he could from what little I’d given him. See the calculations happening behind those sharp blue eyes.
Then he spoke again, his voice gentler. “Help me understand something. Why is he blackmailing you? What is he holding over your head that made you give him money for five years?”
The question I’d been dreading. The one I wasn’t ready to answer. The secret that felt heavier than everything else combined.
I looked away, focusing on the hospital room wall instead of his face. On the generic landscape painting someone had hung there to make the space feel less sterile. Less like a place where people came to die.
“Barbara.” Kirill’s voice was patient but persistent. “I need to know. If I’m going to help you—if I’m going to make him pay for what he did—I need to understand the full picture.”
“I can’t.” The words stuck in my throat.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” I forced myself to meet his gaze, to let him see the shame and fear that came with this particular truth. “Please. Not yet. I’m not—I can’t talk about that yet.”
I watched him struggle with it. Watched the frustration war with understanding on his face.
He wanted to push. Wanted to demand answers because that’s what made sense tactically.
But he was also looking at a woman who’d just survived attempted murder and learned her mother had been killed by the same man.
Understanding won.
“Okay.” He squeezed my hand. “Not yet. But eventually, Barbara. Eventually, you’re going to have to trust me with all of it.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready. Even though the thought of telling him about the video, about the kiss, about my biggest mistake, made me want to disappear into the hospital bed and never emerge.
A knock on the door interrupted whatever he might’ve said next. A doctor entered—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a professional demeanor that immediately made me nervous.
Kirill started to stand, started to give us privacy, but the doctor shook her head.
“You should stay,” she said, consulting the chart in her hands. “She has a serious head injury, but her vitals are stable. We’ll need to monitor her closely for the next few days to ensure there’s no brain swelling or other complications.”
Relief washed through me. Serious but stable. I’d take that.
“However,” the doctor continued, her expression shifting to something more complex, “there is something else we need to discuss.”
My stomach dropped. Something else. That phrase never meant anything good in hospitals.
“We ran a full blood panel when you came in,” she said, looking between Kirill and me. “Standard procedure for trauma cases. And we found something…unexpected.”
“What?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor’s expression softened. “You’re pregnant, Barbara. Approximately six weeks along.”
The world stopped.
Just. Stopped.
All sound cut out. All movement ceased. Even my heartbeat seemed to pause, waiting for my brain to process what I’d just heard.
Pregnant.
Six weeks.
That would be—that would be from—
The first night. The club. Kirill’s penthouse. Before everything got so complicated. Before I knew he’d become…whatever he’d become to me.
“What?” Kirill’s voice broke through the static in my head. He sounded as shocked as I felt.
“I’m what?” I managed to choke out, even though I’d heard her perfectly. Even though the words had landed with the force of a bomb.
“Six weeks along,” the doctor repeated, her tone gentle but matter-of-fact. “Based on your hormone levels and the dating. The trauma didn’t affect the pregnancy as far as we can see. The baby appears to be fine. You were very lucky.”
Lucky. The word felt absurd. I’d been left for dead in an abandoned building after learning my stepbrother killed my mother. Lucky wasn’t the word I’d use.
But pregnant.
I was pregnant.
With Kirill’s baby.
“I’ll give you both some time to process,” the doctor said, backing toward the door. “I’ll check back in a few hours. Try to rest, miss. Your body’s been through significant trauma.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her, and suddenly the room felt too small. Too quiet. Too full of a truth I had no idea how to handle.
I turned to look at Kirill. He was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Shock, definitely. But underneath that—fear? Anger? Joy? I couldn’t tell.
“Kirill—” I started, but I didn’t know how to finish. Didn’t know what to say that would make any of this make sense.
“Six weeks,” he said slowly, like he was working through calculations. “That would be—”
“The first night.” I nodded. “The club. Your penthouse. Before everything went to hell.”
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window, one hand running through his already disheveled hair. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.” I laughed, and it came out slightly hysterical. “That about sums it up.”
He turned to face me, and whatever he saw in my expression made him freeze. For a long moment, he just stared at me, his jaw working like he was trying to find words that wouldn’t come.
Then his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
He pulled it from his pocket, his expression darkening as he read the screen. Whatever he saw there made him curse under his breath in Russian.
“I have to go.”
Just like that. No explanation. No reassurance.
“What?” I blinked at him, still reeling from everything. “Kirill, we need to—”
He was already moving toward the door, shoving his phone back in his pocket.
“Wait—” I started to stand, panic clawing at my chest. “You can’t just—”
But he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the room.
I stood there, frozen, one hand instinctively moving to my still-flat stomach.
He left.
Just…left.
Pregnant.
My mother had been murdered.
Sebastian had tried to kill me.
And the father of my baby had just walked out without a single word about what any of this meant.