15. Vera
VERA
We get back to the penthouse late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. The sky is just starting to lighten when Roman pulls the car into the garage, and by the time we make it upstairs, the sun is creeping over the horizon.
Roman walks me to my door like he always does. His hand hovers at the small of my back, not quite touching, and I can feel the warmth of him even through the fabric of my sweater.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”
I nod and slip inside. The door clicks shut behind me and I lean against it, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The apartment feels different in the early morning light. Softer, somehow.
I change out of my clothes and crawl into bed. The sheets are cool against my skin and I sink into them, letting my body relax for the first time in hours.
Sleep comes faster than I expect.
When I wake, the sun is high in the sky and the penthouse is quiet.
I lie in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The days have started to blur together, one bleeding into the next until I can’t tell where one ends and another begins.
My body feels heavy when I roll over. There’s a sourness in my stomach that I can’t quite shake, a nausea that ebbs and flows without warning.
Stress, I tell myself. It’s just stress.
I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom. The mirror above the sink shows a woman I barely recognize. She’s pale and tired.
I brush my teeth and splash water on my face. The nausea ebbs slightly, but it doesn’t go away entirely. It’s been like this for days now, this low-level queasiness that sits in my stomach like a stone.
It makes sense. The past few weeks have been exhausting, so of course my body is reacting. Of course I feel off.
Except this feels different than just stress.
I move through my morning routine on autopilot. I shower and apply moisturizer, trying to make myself look presentable. It doesn’t work. Even brushing my hair still makes me look tired.
Oksana must have been here while I was in the bathroom, because there’s a tray of food waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I emerge.
There’s fresh fruit and toast, as well as a pot of tea that’s still warm.
I pick at it without much appetite, forcing down a few bites of toast before giving up.
The clock on the wall says it’s almost eleven. I’ve slept the entire morning away.
My mind keeps drifting back to the apartment. I think of those photographs in the drawer, all those sweet, smiling women. Did Dmitri use them too?
I shove away the remaining food and stride into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I won’t think about that now.
I’m almost at the bathroom door when nausea hits.
Pushing past the door, I barely make it to the toilet before spewing up the breakfast I’ve just consumed. The taste is acrid, and my stomach protests all over again at the smell.
Disgusting.
I stand and flush, then rinse out my mouth with mint mouthwash.
That’s when my eyes drift to the small calendar I put on the back of the door. It’s a habit I picked up years ago, tracking my cycle so I’d know when to expect the cramps and the mood swings. Dmitri used to make fun of me for it, telling me I was wasting my time.
The calendar shows a red circle four days ago, marking the day my period should have come.
I stare at it for a long moment, my brain refusing to process what I’m seeing. Then I count back, my fingers pressing against the dates.
I’m four days late.
My hand moves to my stomach without conscious thought. The motion is instinctive.
This can’t be.
Dmitri told me I couldn’t have children.
After years of trying and nothing ever happening, he said the doctors had confirmed it.
I believed him because why wouldn’t I? Every appointment ended the same way.
Every test seemed to lead to the same answer.
Month after month, hope slipped a little further away until, eventually, I stopped expecting anything different.
But now...
Could they have been wrong?
Four days, and I’ve always been frighteningly regular.
I count back again, this time tracking a different set of dates. The first night when he took me against the wall. It’s been barely three weeks since then.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My legs are shaking and I have to grip the edge of the sink to keep myself upright.
It’s not possible.
Could Dmitri have lied?
I could be pregnant. Maybe?
My hand presses harder against my stomach. There’s nothing to feel yet, just the flat plane of my belly and the flutter of my own pulse. Somewhere inside me, if the timing is right, a cluster of cells is becoming something more than the sum of its parts.
I lower myself to the edge of the bathtub and stare at the tile floor. The grout is white and clean, scrubbed by Oksana’s careful hands, and I focus on it because focusing on anything else feels impossible.
Pregnant.
I think about all the times I wanted this.
In the early days of my marriage, before I understood what Dmitri really was, I used to imagine what it would be like to have a child.
A little piece of myself that I could love without reservation.
It was a reason to keep going when everything else felt hopeless.
Then, month after month, when the tests came back negative and my period arrived like clockwork, I stopped hoping.
Dmitri told me it was my fault, and I believed him because I didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.
What if he was lying? What if he knew all along that I could have children and he just didn’t want me to?
The thought makes my stomach turn. It would be just like him, wouldn’t it?
I should tell Roman. The thought surfaces and then immediately submerges again. No. Not yet. Not until I know for sure.
If I’m wrong—if this is just stress or illness or wishful thinking—I don’t want to have this conversation for nothing. If I’m right... well, that’s a whole different problem.
I need a test.
I can’t ask Oksana to get one for me. She’d tell Roman, and then he’ll know, and everything will change before I’m ready for it.
I’ll have to go myself.
I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks scared and hopeful and terrified all at once.
Get it together, I tell her. You don’t even know yet.
Even so, my hand stays on my stomach. I can’t bring myself to move it.
I pull on a cardigan, slip my phone and wallet into my bag, and take a steadying breath.
One stop at the pharmacy, and then I’ll know.
I’m already heading for the front door when Roman walks in.
“You didn’t eat,” he says, his eyes moving to the nearly untouched plate of food on the coffee table.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
He frowns but doesn’t push it. Instead, he settles into the chair across from me and studies my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look...” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Distracted.”
I am distracted. I’m distracted by the possibility growing inside me, by the future that might be taking shape without my knowledge or consent. I can’t tell him that, though.
“I’m just thinking about everything,” I say. “Anton scared me yesterday.”
Roman nods slowly. “I know it’s a lot. Your three weeks are almost up.”
My heart skips a beat. I’d almost forgotten about the deadline in the chaos of the last few weeks. Almost.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say.
“I didn’t think you had.” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “Time is ticking, Vera.”
I should tell him that I might be carrying his child, that everything has changed in ways I’m only beginning to understand. The words stick in my throat. I’m not ready. Not yet.
“Can we go somewhere?” I ask instead. “Just... drive. Get out of the penthouse for a while?”
Roman shrugs. I can see him weighing my request, trying to figure out what’s really behind it.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Let me make some arrangements.”
He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text. Then he stands and offers me his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Artyom will have the car ready in ten minutes.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet. His palm is warm against mine, his grip firm but not tight.
I follow him out of the penthouse and into the elevator. I’ve made my decision. I just need time to figure out what it means.
The car is waiting when we reach the garage. Artyom nods at Roman and opens the back door, his expression as impassive as ever.
“Where to?” Roman asks as we slide into the back seat.
“Away from the city. Somewhere quiet.”
He gives Artyom an address and the car pulls out into traffic. I lean my head against the window and watch the buildings slide past, their windows reflecting the afternoon sun like a thousand tiny mirrors.
Roman is quiet beside me. He doesn’t try to make conversation or fill the silence with small talk. He just sits there and lets me be with my thoughts. It’s more than I expected from him. More than I probably deserve.
The city gives way to suburbs, and the suburbs give way to countryside. The road winds along the edge of a lake, the water glittering in the distance like scattered diamonds.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere I used to go as a boy.” Roman’s voice is low, almost soft. “Before everything changed.”
I don’t ask what he means. I don’t think I need to.
The car pulls off the main road and onto a narrow lane that curves through the trees. At the end of the lane, there’s a small clearing with a wooden bench overlooking the lake.
Roman helps me out of the car and guides me to the bench. We sit side by side, our shoulders almost touching, and stare out at the water.
The lake is still, the surface barely rippling in the breeze. A pair of ducks paddle along the shore, their reflections mirrored in the water.
“My mother brought us here when we were boys,” Roman says. “Dmitri and me. She liked the quiet.” His gaze drifts across the lake. “After she died, we kept coming back.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Without thinking, I lean my head against his shoulder and stare out at the lake. The ducks have disappeared, leaving nothing but still water and endless sky.