9. Emilia
EMILIA
The bench creaks under my shifting weight, the wood warm from the afternoon sun. Salt tang clings to the breeze, tugging at the loose strands of hair escaping my ponytail.
My fingers trace the edge of the ultrasound photo tucked in my purse. Five weeks now, a little bean with a heartbeat like a hummingbird's wings. The OB said everything looked perfect. Healthy.
A shadow stretches over the sand in front of me.
I don't need to look up to know it's him. The air shifts when he's near, thickens like the moment before a storm. His scent—cedar and something darker, like gun oil—cuts through the briny scent of the ocean.
For days, he's been a ghost at the edge of my vision. Watching from the boardwalk. Loitering near the grocery store. Always just far enough to pretend he's not following.
"You're making it weird," I say, finally lifting my gaze.
Egor stands ten feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his black slacks. The wind ruffles his dark hair, the pewter in his eyes catching the light like polished steel. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. Just watches.
I exhale through my nose. "If you're going to stalk me, at least have the decency to not be seen."
He hides behind a tree.
"Just sit down."
A beat. Then he's moving, long strides eating up the distance between us.
The bench creaks under his weight as he settles beside me, close enough that the heat of his thigh radiates through the thin fabric of my sundress.
He doesn't touch me. Doesn't reach for the ultrasound photo peeking from my purse.
Just stares at the waves like they hold the answers to whatever the hell is going on in that head of his.
"Why do you keep following me?" I mutter.
"I want to see you."
"You've seen me. You can go now."
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath the stubble darkening his sharp cheekbones. "Don't push me away."
"Like you did to me?"
"I'm sorry."
I huff, turning to face him fully. "That doesn't change things. It's been five weeks. After what happened before…" My voice cracks. I swallow. "…we're strangers now. Stop acting like I'm yours to protect."
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp as a blade. "You are."
The words hang between us, heavy and unyielding. My pulse kicks up, heat flooding my cheeks. I look away, focusing on the way the sun glints off the water, turning the waves into liquid gold. "I'm not your anything, Egor. Not after?—"
"After I believed the worst of you?" His voice is low, rough. Dangerous. "After I believed you were a liar? A traitor?" A humorless laugh escapes him, bitter as black coffee. "I know what I did, karamelka. And I know I don't deserve your forgiveness."
My fingers curl into fists in my lap. "Then why are you here?"
Silence. The waves crash. A seagull screeches overhead.
Then, quiet: "Because I want you back. You and our child."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. My breath stutters.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to tell him that's not enough, that he doesn't get to claim me just because I'm pregnant with his baby.
But the truth is, I am carrying his child.
And no matter how much I hate him right now, no matter how much he hurt me, that changes things.
I turn my head, studying his profile… the proud slope of his nose, the stubborn set of his jaw. "You can't just show up and expect everything to go back to the way it was."
"I don't."
"Then what do you want?"
His throat works as he swallows. For the first time since I've known him, Egor Vetrov looks uncertain. Almost… vulnerable. "I want to earn it back."
My heart stutters. I press a hand to my chest, like I can physically hold the damn thing in place. "How? You can't earn that trust back so easily."
"I know." His voice is rough, raw. "I'm asking for a chance to do it."
I shake my head, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
"You broke me, Egor. You humiliated me. You looked at me like I was nothing.
Like I was dirt. And now you think you can just…
what? Apologize? Make it up to me?" My voice rises, sharp with hurt.
"I don't even know if I can trust you ever again. "
He flinches. Actually flinches, like my words are a physical blow. "I know."
I swipe at my cheeks, angry at the tears spilling over. "Then why are you still here?"
"Because I'm a selfish bastard." His hand twitches, like he's fighting the urge to reach for me.
The bench groans as I shift, putting another inch of space between us. My fingers dig into the wood, splinters biting into my skin. "It's too late, Egor. That's not how this works."
His jaw clenches, the muscle jumping like a live wire. "I know I fucked up. I know I don't deserve?—"
"Damn right you don't." My voice cracks, but I force the words out, sharp as broken glass.
"You stood there in front of your men, in front of everyone, and you let them call me a traitor.
You let them hurt me. And you didn't even ask for my side.
" My throat burns, tears hot and relentless.
"You just believed them. Just like that. "
His hands flex at his sides, knuckles white. "I was wrong."
"Wrong?" A bitter laugh claws its way out of me. "You weren't just wrong, Egor. You were cruel." I swipe at my cheeks, my breath hitching. "And now you think you can just waltz back into my life like nothing happened? Like I'm just supposed to forget?"
His eyes burn into mine, dark and desperate. "I'm not asking you to forget. I'm asking you to let me fix it."
I shake my head, my chest aching. "It's too late for that."
His shoulders tense, the air around him turning brittle. For a second, I think he's going to argue. That he's going to grab me, shake me, make me listen. But then his hands unclench, his fingers curling into loose fists at his sides. His throat works, like he's swallowing down something sharp.
"Okay," he says, voice low. Defeated.
I don't look at him. I can't.
The bench creaks as he stands, the absence of his heat leaving me colder than I want to admit. His shadow stretches over me one last time before retreating, his footsteps heavy against the sand.
I don't watch him go.
But I feel it when he's gone.
The weight of his absence settles over me like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. My fingers tremble as I press them to my lips, like I can still taste him there.
I hate that it hurts.
I hate that I miss him.
But it's too late.
I come back home, and the scent hits first—roses, thick and cloying, spilling from a dozen crystal vases.
Beside them are bags of groceries—organic this, free-range that, every label screaming expensive.
A stack of pregnancy books teeters beside a sleek baby monitor, its screen glowing with a tiny heartbeat icon. My breath stalls.
A stuffed bear slumps against the wall, its fur too soft, its button eyes too knowing. I kick it aside, but the gesture feels hollow.
No. I should't let this soften me.
As I enter my apartment, I grab my phone from my purse, dialing the number I've already memorized by heart.
The phone trembles against my ear, the weight of it suddenly too much. Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through the blinds, striping the floor in gold and shadow. A single bead of sweat slides down my temple, slow as a tear.
"Karamelka." His voice is rough, like gravel under boots. "You called."
My fingers tighten around the receiver. "You know why I called."
A pause. The sound of his breath, steady and controlled, fills the silence. "I do."
"You can't keep doing this." The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
A box of diapers sits in the corner of my tiny living room, still wrapped in brown paper.
Delivered yesterday. No note. No signature.
Just the quiet insistence of a man who refuses to be ignored.
"Flowers on my doorstep. Groceries. That stupid…
" My voice cracks. "That stupid rocking chair. I don't want your gifts, Egor."
"You're carrying our child." The growl in his tone is unmistakable. "You think I'll let you do this alone?"
"I am alone." The admission burns. The apartment is too quiet, the walls too thin. I press a hand to my stomach, where the first faint swell of our mistake presses against my palm. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? When you threw me out like garbage?"
A low, pained sound rumbles through the line. "I was wrong."
"Wrong?" A bitter laugh escapes me. "You didn't just wrong me, Egor. You broke me." My throat tightens. "And now you think a few deliveries and a fucking rocking chair make it better?"
"No." The word is a blade. "Nothing will. But I will spend the rest of my life trying."
The air leaves my lungs. I sink onto the couch, the springs groaning under my weight. The ultrasound photo sits on the coffee table, its edges curling from where I've picked it up a hundred times. Tiny. Perfect.
"I don't want you back," I whisper. "I don't trust you. I don't…" My voice breaks. "I don't forgive you."
"I know." His voice is raw. "But at least let me take care of you. Both of you."
A knock at the door makes me jump. I know who it is before I even look through the peephole.
Egor stands on the other side, phone still pressed to his ear, his pewter eyes burning into mine through the distorted glass.
I open the door, and he's holding a paper bag… something warm, something that smells like garlic and butter.
My stomach growls.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Like he knows.
I hang up the phone.
My traitorous mouth waters. "You can't just show up here, especially with a bribe."
"It's not a bribe." He doesn't move. Doesn't push. Just stands there, massive and immovable, like a storm waiting to break. "I brought food. Your favorite."
I hate that he remembers. Hate that my fingers itch to take the bag. Hate that my body leans toward him, like a flower turning toward the sun.
"Fine." I snatch the bag from his hands, our fingers brushing. A spark. A memory. The heat of his skin against mine. I step back, putting distance between us. "You can come in. But only to take all these stuff in. Then you leave."
He follows me inside with all the things, his presence swallowing the small space whole. The door clicks shut behind him
The bags land on the counter with a soft thud. I don't look at him as I unpack it… my favorite snacks. My comfort foods. The ones I crave at 2 AM when the nausea fades and hunger takes its place.
Egor's gaze burns into my back. "You're eating for two now."
"I know that." I grab a fork, stabbing a dumpling with more force than necessary. The first bite is heaven. The second is shame. Because I want this. Want him. Even now, even after everything.
His fingers land on the side of my lip, brushing. "You've got something."
I should push him away. But the words die in my throat as his hand falls to my neck.
"You should go," I whisper. "Thanks for bringing?—"
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding. The fork clatters to the floor. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams to stop.
He tastes like sin and salvation. Like the man who broke me. Like the only man who ever made me feel whole.
His hands cup my face, tilting me up to meet his gaze. "I will earn your forgiveness, karamelka. Even if it takes the rest of my life."
I don't push him away.
"And you probably need help relieving these."
My pulse spikes, heat flooding my cheeks. "I've been trying, but it's hard."
His hands are already moving, fingers hooking into the hem of my shirt. The fabric peels away, cool air kissing my skin before his palms replace it, rough and possessive. My breath hitches as he unclasps my bra, the straps sliding down my arms with deliberate slowness.
A bead of milk escapes, trailing down the curve of my breast. His gaze locks onto it, dark and hungry.
"Look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing over my nipple. The touch sends a jolt straight to my core. "So full."
I should stop him. I know I should.
But then his mouth is on me, hot and wet, pulling at my flesh. A moan claws its way up my throat as he swallows, the suction sending sparks through my veins. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him closer even as my mind screams at me to push him away.
His hand drifts lower, fingers teasing the waistband of my shorts. The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water.
I shove at his shoulders, my palms slick against his skin. "Stop."
I push again, stumbling back until my spine hits the wall. "You don't get to do this."
His hands clench at his sides, knuckles white. For a second, I think he'll argue. That he'll pin me down and take what he wants, consequences be damned.
But then he steps back, his expression shuttering. "Fine." The word is a blade. "I'll leave, karamelka."
The door slams behind him, leaving me shaking, my skin still humming from his touch.