18. Vera
VERA
The pharmacy smells like antiseptic and artificial flowers.
I stand just inside the door, letting my eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting. The shelves stretch out before me, filled with bottles and boxes in colors that seem too bright for the otherwise muted atmosphere.
Oksana hangs back near the door, giving me space. I appreciate that more than I can say.
My feet feel heavy as I make my way toward the back of the store, toward the section I’ve visited so many times before. The section that always gave me the same crushing disappointment.
Pregnancy tests. I reach for one without really looking at it. My hands are shaking, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.
This is different, I tell myself. This time is different.
Except I’ve told myself that before. In the beginning, I stood in pharmacies just like this one, holding a test and hoping for a different result. Every time, I walked away with the same hollow ache in my chest.
Dmitri’s voice echoes in my memory. There’s something wrong with you, Vera. Something that can’t be fixed.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. That wasn’t true. Was it?
I clutch the box tighter and make my way to the counter. The pharmacist is a young woman with kind eyes and a professional smile. She looks at me, then at the test in my hand, and something in her expression softens.
“Will that be all?” she asks.
“Yes, thanks.”
She scans the box and tells me the total. I pay with cash, not wanting to leave a paper trail, though I don’t know if I’m being overly paranoid.
The bag she hands me is small and white. You’d never know what was inside just from looking.
“Good luck,” she says as I turn to leave.
I don’t respond. I can’t.
When I leave, Oksana is waiting for me outside. She takes one look at me and reaches for my arm, steadying me.
“Did you get it?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Then let’s go back.”
The walk back feels longer than the walk there. Every step is weighted with the knowledge of what’s waiting for me. I don’t say anything.
Neither does Oksana. We just walk, our footsteps falling into an easy rhythm on the pavement.
I try to picture his face when I say the words, but I can’t. His expression is always the same in my imagination: closed off. I’ve no idea if he’d be happy or outraged.
He could be either. Roman might even see this as a complication or an obstacle in his path. Or he might see it as an opportunity, a way to bind me to him forever.
I don’t know. I don’t know him well enough to predict his reaction.
That terrifies me more than anything.
We walk the rest of the way, and I don’t even look at Oksana as we go.
The doorman is standing at his post when we reach the building. He’s an older man with a kind face, though I don’t know his name. His eyes follow me as I approach, and something in his expression shifts.
“Mrs. Volkonsky,” he says. “Is everything alright?”
I open my mouth to respond, but Oksana steps in before I can. “She’s fine,” Oksana says, her voice calm and reassuring. “Just needed some fresh air.”
The doorman nods, but his eyes linger on my face for a moment longer than necessary. I wonder what he sees there. I don’t think I even want to know, honestly. Whatever it is, he doesn’t push. He steps aside and lets us pass instead, and goes back to the newspaper behind his desk.
The elevator ride feels endless. I stare at the numbers above the door, watching them climb slowly. Each floor brings me closer to the moment of truth.
Oksana stands beside me, silent and steady. Her presence is a comfort, even if I can’t bring myself to speak.
The doors finally open, and I step out into the hallway. The security detail is waiting.
The taller one checks his watch as I approach, his expression disapproving. “You’re late,” he says.
Something in me snaps. “I’m not late,” I say. My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “I said I needed twenty minutes.”
His brows climb to his hairline.
I check my own watch, my hands still trembling slightly. “It’s been twenty-two minutes. That’s hardly late.”
The security man’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to argue, but one glance at my face seems to change his mind.
“Of course, Mrs. Volkonsky,” he says. “My apologies.”
I nod curtly and brush past him, heading for the penthouse door.
I catch Oksana murmuring something to the guards as I stride past them, though I don’t catch what she says. Apologizing for my outburst, probably.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I let out a breath.
The penthouse is quiet. Roman isn’t back yet, and the silence feels heavy. I stand in the entryway for a moment, clutching the small white bag in my hand.
Oksana appears at my elbow. “Do you want me to stay?”
I shake my head. “I need to do this alone.”
She nods, her expression understanding. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
I watch her walk away; then I turn toward the bathroom. Okay. I can do this. This is it. This is the moment that will change everything.
I close the bathroom door behind me and lean against it, letting the cool wood press into my back. The bag feels heavy in my hand.
I take a deep breath. Then another. Then I reach into the bag and pull out the test.
I stare at the box in my hands. The instructions are simple: hold the absorbent tip in your urine stream for five seconds, then replace the cap. Place the test on a flat surface. Wait three minutes.
Three minutes. That’s all it takes to change everything.
I’ve done this dozens of times before. I used to buy tests in bulk, hiding them in the bottom of my shopping cart like they were something shameful. Nobody knew I took them so routinely.
Now, standing in this bathroom with the test in my hand, I wonder if Dmitri was lying. Only one way to find out.
My hands are shaking as I follow the instructions. I hold the absorbent tip in place, counting the seconds in my head. I replace the cap and set the test on the counter, face down so I can’t see the window.
Three minutes.
I sit down on the edge of the bathtub and wait.
The bathroom is quiet. I can hear my own breathing, rapid and shallow.
Oksana is moving around somewhere in the hall. Pacing, maybe. I don’t blame her. I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she as nervous as I am?
Probably not. Oksana has seen a lot in her years with the Volkonsky family. A pregnancy test probably doesn’t even register on her scale of concerning things.
Two minutes.
I stand up and pace the small bathroom, my feet wearing a path in the tile floor. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and quickly turn away.
One minute.
I pick up the test and hold it in my hand, feeling the weight of it. The plastic is cool against my palm. I take a deep breath and turn it over.
Two pink lines glow up at me. I look at the test for a long time. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink, pale and wide-eyed.
I’m pregnant. I’m carrying Roman’s child.
The nausea that’s been plaguing me for days surges up without warning, and I barely make it to the toilet before I’m sick. I gag, hands clenched into fists and eyes squeezed shut.
When it’s over, I flush and wash my face, trying to calm my racing heart.
I sink down onto the bathroom floor, my back against the cool tile wall, and let the test slip from my fingers. It lands face up on the mat beside me, those two pink lines still visible.
I don’t know how long I sit there. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Time seems to have lost all meaning, replaced by the endless loop of thoughts spinning through my head.
What does this mean? What am I going to do? I have to tell him. He deserves to know, and it’s not as if I can hide nine months of pregnancy and a baby afterwards. This child is his as much as mine, and he has a right to know that it exists.
Except if I say something now while I’m still reeling from the news, I’ll say the wrong thing. I’ll make the wrong decision instead of thinking clearly about what’s best for me and for this child.
I pick up the test and wrap it in toilet paper. I bury it in the bottom of the trash can, underneath the tissues and empty packaging that have accumulated over the past few days.
It’s not a perfect hiding spot. Anyone who looked would find it eventually, but why would Roman think to look? The trash will be thrown out soon, anyway.
I stand up and wash my face again, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Then I take a deep breath and open the bathroom door.
Oksana is in the kitchen, just like she said she’d be. She’s putting away groceries, but she looks up when I enter. Her eyes immediately go to my face.
“Well?” she asks.
I nod.
She sets down the can she’s holding and wipes her hands on a towel. “It was positive?”
“Positive.”
She nods slowly, like she expected as much. “And Roman?”
“I should tell him in person, but first I need to decide what I want before I bring him into it.”
Oksana studies me for a long moment. Then she nods again. “You know best,” she says. “Don’t wait too long, though. Secrets have a way of coming out, whether we want them to or not.”
“I know.” I move past her toward the living room, needing to put some distance between myself and the kitchen, between myself and the conversation we just had. “I’ll tell him soon.”
“Soon and today are two different things,” Oksana calls after me. “Roman is not a patient man.”
I sink onto the couch and stare at the window, watching the city lights blink and shimmer in the early evening darkness.
Oksana doesn’t follow, which is a small mercy.
I need to make a decision today. I can’t keep putting this off, and I certainly can’t keep hiding behind excuses and delays. Roman gave me three weeks, and they’re almost up. He deserves an answer.
The question is, what answer am I going to give him?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I snap to attention with a jolt.
I reach for it without thinking, assuming it’s Roman. Who else other than Roman or Dad would need me?
The name on the screen isn’t Roman’s. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and there’s no name attached. I frown and answer anyway.
“Hello?”
“Vera.” The voice on the other end makes me scowl.
It’s Konstantin Volkonsky, Roman’s father.
My grip tightens on the phone. “How did you get this number?” I’d been very careful not to give it to him, ever.
“That’s not important.” His voice is smooth, like he has all the time in the world. “What’s important is that we talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Then listen.” A pause. “It’s time.”
I stare at the phone in my hand, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m in no mood for cryptic messages. “What do you mean, it’s time?” I ask. “Time for what?”
The line is already dead.