Chapter 21
Willow
That week, I hadn't slept well.
After Artyom took that call, he vanished. So did any way to reach him.
I lay there and tried to force sleep, but it never came. The curtains didn't quite meet, and streetlight bled through the crack, painting a thin bright line across the ceiling.
I stared at it so long the light seemed to thin out, turn pale. Outside, the deep blue faded to gray, then the whole world slowly brightened.
I didn't move.
The blanket stayed on me, but I never really got warm. My phone sat on silent by my pillow, screen black. No texts. No calls.
I rolled over and shoved my face into the pillow. The fabric felt cold against my cheek.
I remembered him under the streetlamp, scraping my forehead with his sleeve. His grip had been hard—hard enough my skin still seemed to buzz with it.
Then I saw him turning away.
He didn't look back. The wind kicked up the edge of his coat.
He took a few steps, got in the car, and kept going until I couldn't see him anymore.
I turned again, staring toward the other side of the room.
By then it was full daylight. The air smelled dry, like dust warming up in the sun.
I sat up and dropped my feet to the floor. Cold seeped through my soles.
Something smelled good. Food.
I froze for a couple seconds, then got up, threw on a jacket, and headed for the kitchen.
Ethan stood with his back to me at the stove.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. A spatula moved in his hand. A skillet sat on the burner, egg edges snapping and sizzling in oil. Next to it, a plate of sliced fruit, neat like it came out of a damn magazine.
He heard me and glanced over. "You're up?"
I just stood there, looking at him.
He wore a white shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, apron tied on like he hadn't bothered to care.
"Yeah," I mumbled.
He didn't press. He just turned the heat down and nudged the whites with the spatula, making sure it cooked evenly.
"How'd you get in?"
"Your lock is busted," he said. "I didn't pick it. I just turned it."
Just turned it.
Yeah. Sure.
I rubbed my throbbing temple. "Ethan, you shouldn't be breaking into people's apartments."
He winked at me, all innocent. "Won't do it again."
Then he stepped in close, studied my face like he meant it. "You look like hell. You didn't sleep, did you?"
"No."
I walked out and sat at the table.
He brought the eggs and fruit over, set them in front of me, then put down a glass of warm water.
The fruit caught a thin shine under the light, cut into perfect little pieces.
I stared at it and said nothing.
"Eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then drink." He pushed the water closer. "After that, we'll talk."
I took a sip. It slid down my throat with no taste at all.
Ethan sat beside me and didn't rush me.
With him watching, I finally picked up the fork.
The eggs were a little burnt at the edges. I speared a tiny bite, chewed twice, swallowed—
My stomach clenched hard.
It hit so fast it felt like something flipped up from the bottom of me.
I dropped the fork, slapped a hand over my mouth, and ran for the bathroom.
My stomach was empty. Nothing came up. Just dry heaves, one after another, slamming through me until I had to crouch on the floor and wait it out.
I hauled myself up on the sink.
In the mirror, my face looked washed out. My lips had no color. The dark under my eyes looked worse than it had that morning.
I turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto my face.
It dripped down my jaw and into my collar, icy.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
He leaned on the frame, not coming in, not leaving. "How many days?"
"What?"
"This. How many days has this been happening?"
I straightened and wiped my face with the back of my hand. "It is just my stomach."
"Willow." He said my name once, firm. "You go to the hospital. Now."
"I didn't—"
"It isn't a debate." He tilted his head toward the living room. "Your coat is on the couch."
One look at his profile told me fighting him would get me nowhere.
I got dressed. We went to the hospital.
?????
I sat on a hard bench in the hallway, crushing a payment slip that already had fold lines worn into it.
The place reeked of antiseptic. The walls were that sad pale green. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a mosquito you couldn't kill.
Ethan sat next to me. Neither of us spoke.
A door at the end of the hall opened, then shut.
A nurse came out with a report, looked at me. "Ms. Pierce, come on in."
I stood. Ethan stood too.
He stopped at the doorway and didn't follow.
I pushed inside.
A desk. Two chairs. A computer with the screen glowing.
The doctor glanced at the monitor, then at me. "Congratulations. You're pregnant. Based on your numbers, you are around five weeks. Everything looks normal."
The air went solid.
She kept talking—folic acid, rest, next steps—but I didn't hear a word. A high, sharp ringing filled my ears, louder than the lights.
Five weeks.
My hand went to my lower belly without thinking.
It was flat. Soft. Nothing felt different.
A few days earlier I'd told myself it was just exhaustion, too many late nights, maybe my stomach acting up with the season changing.
It wasn't an illness. It was a life.
"Ms. Pierce?"
I snapped back, my focus swimming until it landed on her face.
She waited for my answer.
"I..." My throat felt scraped raw. "What do I need to do?"
She didn't look surprised. She grabbed her pen and wrote quickly in my chart.
The scratch of the pen on paper sounded too loud in that dead-quiet room.
"First, you stay calm. Anxiety and stress aren't good for fetal development.
" She looked up, gentle. "I wrote you a basic prenatal vitamin.
Next week, same time, you come back for an ultrasound to confirm the heartbeat and development.
If you have abdominal pain or bleeding, you come to the ER right away. "
She handed me the papers, her gaze catching on my face for a beat.
"And," she said, softer, "are you planning to tell the baby's father?"
The father. Artyom.
Was I going to tell Artyom? Tell him this thing that, to him, might be an accident—or worse, a problem?
"I'll think about it," I heard myself say.
She didn't push. Just nodded and dismissed me.
When I stepped back into the hallway, the lights felt harsher than before.
Ethan was still there, shoulder against the wall, hands in his pockets.
The second he saw me, he straightened, eyes scanning my face like he could read the answer.
"I am pregnant."
Ethan stared at me for a few seconds before he spoke. "The father is Artyom?"
I nodded.
He stood beside me, looking down at the ultrasound printout in my hand.
"Does he know?"
"No."
"Are you going to tell him?"
I lowered my head, stared at my fingers. "I don't know."
Ethan let out a breath and gripped my shoulder. "Willow, do you know who Artyom is? He is dangerous. He is the Pakhan in New York. People in his family won't tolerate this kid."
Pakhan.
The word speared my ear like ice. Cold rushed down my spine and flooded my whole body.
I'd never forced myself to look too hard at the world behind Artyom—those half-heard rumors, the way he sometimes smelled like metal and violence. Now it all snapped into place, ugly and real.
"So," my voice shook, but it came out clean, "if he finds out... this baby won't make it?"
Ethan didn't say yes. He just tightened his hand on my shoulder.
"Willow, this isn't some normal family drama. In that world, an illegitimate kid isn't a blessing. It is a weakness. A target for enemies. An excuse for the family to clean house. Artyom might care about you a little, but when money and rules show up, that care is paper-thin."
My arm curled over my flat belly on instinct, like I could shield it with my body. That tiny, invisible heartbeat became my anchor—and my biggest weakness.
"If he knew," Ethan said, "what would he do?"
I sat there and didn't answer.
Because I already knew.
Even if I didn't want to picture it, the truth sat there, waiting: a man like him didn't let mistakes live. His world didn't need surprises. And his words—those nasty comments about the way I ate—still looped in my head like a broken record.
I remembered the look in his eyes that night under the streetlamp—cold, disgusted.
If he knew I was pregnant, how would he look at me? Like I was trying to trap him with a baby?
I drew in a shaky breath and lifted my head. "I want to leave."
Ethan searched my face. "You are sure?"
"Yeah."
He nodded once. "I'll help you."
When we got back to my apartment, it was already dark.
I sat at my desk, opened my email, started a new message, and typed Tom into the recipient line.
The body was one sentence: I submitted my resignation.
I paused, then added: Personal reasons. I hope the process can be completed as soon as possible. Then I hit send.
The cursor blinked once in the bottom corner and vanished.
I stared at the sent email and felt something go quiet inside me.
Not relief. Not freedom.
More like a stone finally hit the ground.
Once I'd made the decision, the fear eased up.
I went to my closet and pulled it open. I didn't have much. A few everyday clothes stacked on the shelf. That dark green dress lay crushed at the bottom, satin catching a dull shine under the light.
I touched it. Cold.
I shut the closet door.
And I shut the last little fantasy in my chest with it.
None of it had ever belonged to my world.
?????
When I went to the office that afternoon to finish the paperwork, Tom didn't ask a single question. He didn't even look up.
He took the form from my hand, clicked through something in the system, and slid the receipt back.
"Fine. You can leave today."
His eyes stayed glued to his monitor.
I took the receipt and walked out. The hallway lights were still bright as ever.
When I passed my desk, I stopped. Looked at the few things on it. Then I grabbed my light pink water bottle and shoved it into my bag. I didn't bother with anything else.
As soon as I stepped outside, the wind hit my face.
I walked along the street. At the first intersection, the light turned red.
I stopped and waited.
I thought about the first time I'd seen Artyom—lounging in that bar booth, swirling half a glass of whiskey.
Back then, he'd seemed mysterious. Addictive. Like a book I couldn't decode.
Now, looking back, it had just been a predator taking his time.
That night, I'd thought I was the hunter. Turns out I'd been the idiot lamb strolling straight into a wolf's mouth.
The light turned green, and the crowd pressed forward, carrying me with it.
Artyom had taught me a lot. The thing that had pissed him off most was how I didn't know how to fight back.
Before that banquet, he'd said, "Stand up straight."
Afterward, I'd felt my spine actually hold like I couldn't shrink anymore.
The wind cut in from the side. My vision blurred.
I wiped my cheek. My fingers came back wet. Tears slid down my chin and soaked into my collar.
I lifted my head and walked faster.
By the time I reached my building, it was fully dark.
I got to the door and reached for my keys—then caught someone in the corner of my eye.
Lily leaned against the wall in a light trench coat, watching me come closer.
"Ms. Pierce." She smiled. "Out this late. Where is Ethan? He didn't walk you home?"
I didn't stop. I kept going.
Lily didn't move, but I felt her stare on my back, tight as a hand between my shoulder blades.
"I saw Artyom today," she called behind me. "He kept tearing you down."
I stopped.
"He said you were stupid. Said you were an idiot. Said you were just some girl from nowhere." She stepped in front of me. "But you don't need to be upset. You two were never from the same world. He is sick of you, Ms. Pierce. To him, you are nothing."
I looked at her.
The streetlight was bright enough to catch the lift of her mouth.
That soft, polite mask she always wore had ripped clean off.
Lily tilted her head. "And you can quit the act. I've seen your type a hundred times. Playing dumb, playing pitiful, thinking men eat that shit up."
"You've been hanging around Ethan a lot, right? Couldn't hook Artyom, so you tried to climb into the Hall family instead. You really think you're good enough?"
"I'm not," I said.
"Whatever." She shrugged. "I don't care. Artyom already hates you."
Cold night wind swept around the corner. I pulled my coat tighter and didn't bother arguing.
That indifference seemed to set her off.
Her heels clicked as she stepped closer. Her perfect face came right up to mine, perfume so strong it made my head swim. "What, I hit a nerve? You think Ethan has your back so you are safe? Let me tell you something—Sokolov business isn't water you can wade into."
She reached out like she was brushing a bit of leaf off my shoulder.
All I felt was a sudden weight in my pocket.
I didn't even have time to react. She pulled her hand back, took half a step away, and pasted that fake smile back on.
"I've said my piece. Do what you want."
She adjusted her cashmere wrap and walked off, heels snapping against the pavement.
I stood there and reached into my coat pocket.
A cold USB drive sat in my palm.
The streetlight stretched my shadow long. The wind stung my face. I stood there anyway, frozen for a long time, unable to make sense of what Lily had just done—or what the hell she'd meant by it.