Chapter Thirty-Three
Mirabel
My stomach convulses for the fourth consecutive morning, and I barely make it to the toilet before everything comes up.
I grip the porcelain, knuckles white, as another wave hits. Sweat breaks across my forehead as acid burns my throat raw.
Four days. Four mornings. Same time, same violent purge.
When it’s over, I slump against the cool bathroom wall, drawing in ragged breaths. The marble tiles press against my legs as I wipe my mouth with a trembling hand.
This isn’t food poisoning.
The realization sits heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore any longer. I’ve been counting days in my head, running calculations, making excuses. But my body is speaking a truth my mind has been avoiding.
I push myself up from the floor, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection.
My skin looks paler, almost translucent in places.
Dark circles shadow my eyes. I could blame it on stress—God knows there’s been enough of that lately with Arkady’s behavior growing more erratic, his mood darkening for some unknown reason.
But I know better.
My hand drifts to my stomach, resting against the slight curve that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. Not enough for anyone to notice yet, just enough for my clothes to fit differently.
I fish my phone from my pocket, fingers unsteady as I dial.
“Morning, sunshine,” Diane answers, her voice bright enough to make me wince. “You calling to say you’re finally escaping that mansion for brunch with your bestie?”
“I need to talk,” I say, my voice catching. “It’s important.”
There’s a pause, then her tone shifts. “What’s wrong?”
“I think… I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air, the first time I’ve said them aloud. They sound foreign, impossible. Yet utterly real.
“Shit,” she breathes. “Arkady’s?”
“Who else’s?” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. Yes. His.”
“You’re sure?”
I lean against the sink. “Morning sickness. Four days straight. My period’s late. I’m never late.”
“Have you taken a test?”
“No, but—”
“Mira,” she cuts in, gentle but firm. “Take a test. Then we’ll talk next steps.”
Next steps. Like it’s that simple. Like I’m not carrying the child of a man who’s explicitly stated he never wants children. A man who runs a casino with ties to the Russian mafia. A man who keeps armed guards around his property and has a room where he keeps human ashes and a gun.
A man I’ve fallen for despite every warning sign.
“I don’t have one,” I say. “And I’m working all day. There aren’t any shops nearby.”
“Can’t you ask one of the staff to get you one?”
I laugh, the sound brittle. “Right. ‘Excuse me, could you pick up a pregnancy test so I can confirm I’m carrying the boss’s baby?’ That’ll go over well. This house has ears, Di. And eyes. Everywhere.”
“Point taken. What about the staff? You could say you need to run an errand?”
“Maybe.” I chew my lip, considering. “I could make an excuse.”
“Do it. Today. You need to know.”
“Yeah.”
My mind’s already running ahead, calculating scenarios, outcomes.
What if I am pregnant? What happens to Dad’s treatments if I lose this job?
I’ve finally gotten him stabilized, the experimental treatments actually working—all paid for by the salary Arkady’s giving me.
The bills would crush us if he decided to throw me out.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “Thanks, Di.”
“Call me the second you know, okay?”
“I will.”
After hanging up, I pull in a deep breath, and head off to look for Arkady.
I find him in his study, hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration.
A gun rests casually on the desk beside a stack of ledgers—the kind that never see an accountant’s eyes.
The tension radiates from him in waves. Dark bruises shadow his knuckles—I don’t plan to ask what that’s about. I doubt he’d even answer.
“Arkady?” I say, and he snaps his head up, eyes sharpening.
For a split second, I see something lethal there—the same cold calculation I glimpsed the night men with bloody knuckles came to his office for “business discussions.” His hand instinctively shifts toward the weapon before recognition filters through.
“What is it?”
“I need to go to the shops,” I say, the rehearsed lie ready. “We’re out of some cleaning supplies.”
His frown deepens, eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you put it on the shopping list and have it delivered?”
“I forgot.” I hold my breath, hoping he won’t call me out.
Arkady leans back, studying me. “You keep forgetting things, Mirabel. I’m not happy with that.”
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to look away. I wonder if he already knows. If he can somehow see the changes in my body that I’ve only just begun to recognize.
My skin heats under his scrutiny, remembering how those same eyes had darkened with hunger when he’d pushed me against his office wall last week, his mouth claiming mine with a possessiveness that still makes me weak.
The memory of his hands, rough and demanding, sends an inappropriate surge of desire through me.
This is what makes him so dangerous—the way he can make me want him even when I should be running.
His jaw works as he stares, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness at the corners of his mouth. Something’s eating at him. Something big.
“Is there something you need to talk about?” I offer, softening my tone.
His eyes go distant, unfocused for a moment, like he’s looking at something far away. “No,” he says curtly, returning to the present.
The rejection stings, but I push past it. “I really need those supplies, Arkady.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Take the staff car. Be back within the hour.”
“Thank you.” I turn to leave before he can change his mind.
“Mirabel.”
I pause at the doorway, glancing back.
“Be careful.”
“Sure.” I nod and slip away, convinced that any moment he’s going to stop me in my tracks and tell me that he knows.
***
The pharmacy feels too bright, too exposed. I grab cleaning supplies I don’t need—disinfectant, glass cleaner, sponges—and add them to my basket to validate my story. Then, heart hammering, I slip down the feminine products aisle.
The pregnancy tests stare back at me, row upon row of options promising 99% accuracy, early detection, clear results.
I grab two different brands, burying them under the cleaning supplies.
My hand shakes as I pay, nodding at the cashier’s generic smile, grateful she doesn’t look too closely at my purchases.
Get a grip, Mirabel.
She doesn’t care.
The shopping bag sits on the front seat beside me as I make the journey back. I barely notice the passing scenery, and for once, I’m not overwhelmed by the sheer size of the mansion as I half jog up the stairs to the front door.
I get to my room, thanking all the gods I can think of that nobody stops me on the way, then run straight to the en suite, and sit on the edge of the bathtub, test in hand. For a full minute, I stay frozen, staring down at the packaging.
Come on, come on.
Just get it over with.
I take a deep breath and follow the instructions, then set the stick on the counter. The wait feels eternal. I pace the small bathroom, counting seconds in my head, fighting the urge to look too soon.
When I finally pick it up, my hands tremble so badly I nearly drop it.
Two.
Pink.
Lines.
Positive.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. I grab the second test, repeating the process exactly as the instructions tell me, as if doing it perfectly might change the outcome.
It doesn’t.
Two. Pink. Lines.
Pregnant. With Arkady Laurov’s child. The man who makes killers tremble. The man whose bed I’ve shared. The man who absolutely, categorically never wants children. The evidence stares at me like an accusation.
Oh God.
My life is over. Or just beginning. Or both.
I sink to the floor, back against the tub, staring at the test in my hands. How is this even possible? I’m on the pill. Did I miss one?
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
A child. In this world of violence and secrets.
My mind races, spiraling out of control. I can’t tell Arkady. I know how much he’s against having kids. He said it himself; I overheard it before the wedding when Rosanna said she was pregnant, and he threw a complete fit. And then he told me himself. I can’t say I never knew.
If he finds out about this pregnancy, I’m fired. Or worse. Men like Arkady Laurov don’t tolerate complications, and I’ve seen firsthand how ruthlessly he eliminates problems from his life. The fact that I’ve warmed his bed doesn’t guarantee my safety—it might even make me more of a liability.
Oh fuck!
Would he kill me?
Surely not.
But who knows with that man? He’s an enigma. We’ve barely spoken since the last time we were together, apart from what’s been necessary to get my job done. If I’m honest with myself, it’s been bugging the hell out of me.
I press a hand against my still-flat stomach, calculating my next move.
How much time do I have before my body betrays me?
Three months? Four? The extra pounds I’ve put on recently—hence the torn dress at the wedding—might buy me a little time.
My slightly curvier body will hide the early changes longer.
But eventually, Arkady will notice my growing stomach. He notices everything.
What the hell do I do?
I wrap the tests in toilet paper and bury them deep in the bathroom trash, washing my hands under scalding water afterward as if I could erase the truth they revealed.
In the mirror, I practice my expression, smoothing away the panic, the fear. I can do this. I can keep this secret, at least until I figure out a plan. At least until I know what I want.
Yet part of me—the foolish, reckless part—already feels protective of this tiny secret growing inside me. Arkady’s child. The heir to whatever empire he’s building in blood and shadow.
Because beneath the panic and practicalities, there’s that whisper again—faint but persistent. A possibility I’m not ready to name, but can’t entirely ignore:
Part of me wants this baby.
His baby.
And that terrifies me most of all.