Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Natasha
Another wave of nausea hit.
I gripped the wobbly table and doubled over, jaw clenched tight. My stomach churned, but nothing came up—I hadn't been able to keep anything down since yesterday. Eyes squeezed shut, I waited for the spasm to pass, cold sweat beading on my forehead.
It took a while before I could straighten up.
I wiped my mouth and picked up the brush again, turning back to the canvas by the wall.
Only when I painted did the sickness ease.
On the canvas was a woman's face.
I'd never met my mother. I could only piece her together from dusty old photographs.
She died in childbirth with me, and after that, her pictures, her very existence, became the rawest wound in our house.
For years, I didn't dare mention her, never imagined I'd one day find the courage to paint her.
But ever since I found out about the baby, her blurred face kept surfacing in my mind. I thought when the child was born, I'd hang this painting by the bed, so my baby would know—he had a grandmother who was deeply loved, and who loved deeply in return.
I dipped my brush in dark paint and touched it to the canvas.
Footsteps sounded outside. Then, knocking.
"Natasha." His voice came through the door, rough and low. "It's me."
I didn't move. I stared at the unfinished face on the canvas, forcing myself to lower the brush again.
I didn't care. I told myself I didn't care at all. I was upset enough already—if I just kept painting, kept my hands moving, I could pretend there was nothing outside that door, pretend that voice didn't exist.
"I know about the baby." The voice dropped lower, almost seeping through the crack. "That night I didn't come home, left you alone there, said those things..."
Go away. I begged him silently, over and over. Please, just go. Stop pushing me.
I backed up half a step without thinking. My heel hit a loose floorboard with a soft creak.
The voice outside stopped dead.
The next second, the rickety wooden door exploded inward.
I looked toward the doorway.
Dante stood there. We stared at each other, neither speaking first. The room was so quiet I could hear both our breathing.
Then he came straight at me.
I backed up instinctively until my spine hit the cold wall.
Dante stopped half a step away. His gaze locked onto my stomach—still flat, nothing showing yet, but he stared at it like he couldn't tear his eyes away.
"You're pregnant." His Adam's apple bobbed. "You're carrying my child... Why didn't you tell me?"
Slowly, I set the brush back on the table.
"Yes." I looked at him, voice flat. "I was planning to tell you on your birthday. Wanted to surprise you."
Dante's breathing caught.
"But now," I continued, word by word, "this has nothing to do with you anymore."
The muscles in his face went rigid.
"Natasha, stop this," he said, taking a half step forward. His voice dropped, rough with an urgency I'd never heard from him before—almost pleading.
"That night wasn't what you think. I didn't touch Vera. I was just taking care of her—she completely lost control that night. She had a bottle of sleeping pills in her hand, talking about ending it, cutting at her wrists. I couldn't leave."
His jaw tightened. "Nothing happened between us. Nothing. I swear to God."
I looked at him, and something inside me twisted with pain.
In his mind, if I just believed that one thing, everything could go back to normal. He actually thought that not sleeping with Vera meant he'd done nothing wrong.
But he didn't understand—what hurt me most was never whether he fucked Vera that night.
"Fine," I said quietly. "Let's say you're telling the truth. You took care of Vera all night. You didn't touch her."
"Natasha—"
"Then answer me this." I cut him off, meeting his eyes. "If your conscience is so clear, in all those hours, why couldn't you spare one minute to call me?"
His mouth opened.
"You knew it was your birthday. You knew I was waiting at the manor." I stepped closer. "Why did you lie to me? Why did you hide that Vera kept coming after you, clinging to you? Dante, if you really did nothing wrong, why all the lies?"
Question after question slammed into him. He couldn't answer a single one.
Dante froze, throat working, lips parting and closing. This man who was always so confident stood before me, unable to string together even one coherent lie.
He had no answer.
Because there wasn't one.
I watched him flounder and suddenly laughed. My eyes stung.
"Don't bother, Dante. I'll say it for you.
" I stared at him. "You can't answer because you've been playing both sides from the start.
On one side, Vera clinging to you. On the other, me stupidly loving you.
You couldn't let either of us go. You enjoyed being loved by two women at once, so you wouldn't push either away, wanted to keep us both in your grip. "
I paused, then said it.
"You disgust me."
Dante's face went white.
"Whatever you think of me," he said, each word deliberate, "I'm this child's father. That's a fact. No one can change it. You can't keep hiding from me, Natasha. I have an obligation to take care of you, to take care of my child."
He glanced around the drafty wreck of a room, brow furrowing.
"Pack your things." He said. "Today. You're moving out of this dump."
"I don't need you to take care of me." I shot back immediately, standing my ground. "Dante, you've already decided to marry Vera. The only woman in this world who needs your care is Vera. Go take care of your bride."
"That's two different things." His jaw tightened. "Vera and the baby. I won't let my child go hungry and cold in a place like this. This isn't up for discussion."
"I'll take care of my baby myself." I sneered. "What makes you think I have to take what you want to give?"
Dante didn't immediately argue.
He fell silent. After a long moment, he spoke quietly.
"Vera... doesn't have much time left," he said. "I just want to give her some compensation. When it's all over..."
He didn't finish.
But he didn't need to.
I understood. What he meant was—he planned to come back to me after Vera was gone. What he gave her was a final, dying consolation. What he was leaving me was the empty space she would leave behind when she died.
Looking at this man, I felt like I was seeing a stranger for the first time.
He could casually trample my heart, then turn around to comfort me. He could hold the woman he claimed to deeply love while cold-bloodedly calculating her death, treating it like a countdown to our fresh start.
How selfish, how cold-blooded did someone have to be to say something like that so matter-of-factly?
My mouth opened, but my throat closed. Nothing came out. I never knew a person could claim to love while being this heartless.
And this man was the father of the child in my belly.
Just then, chaotic footsteps approached, and someone else burst through the door.
Leo.
He leaned against the doorframe, half his face covered in blood, mouth still bleeding—someone had beaten him badly. Breathing hard, his eyes found me immediately, then flicked to Dante standing before me.
Perfect timing.
I stepped back, circled around Dante, walked to Leo's side, and deliberately took his arm.
Leo's body went rigid. He looked down at me, eyes full of shock.
"You're too late, Dante." I leaned against Leo's arm, looking up at Dante, voice steady in a way that surprised even me. "Leo and I are together now."
Dante's gaze dropped to my hand on Leo's arm.
I heard clearly the crack of his knuckles as he made a fist.
"Together?" He laughed coldly through clenched teeth, staring at Leo. "Him? A loser who can only keep his woman in the slums? Natasha, look at this place. Look where you're living. This is all he can give you."
"But right now," I met his eyes, word by word, "I'm happier than I ever was in your manor."
The calm, polished veneer Dante always wore began cracking apart. He stepped back, chest heaving, something burning in his eyes that threatened to consume him.
The next moment, his hand went inside his jacket and came up—the gun barrel pointed straight at Leo.
"Him? This broke bastard?" His voice shook badly, every word grinding through his teeth.
"I'm telling you, Natasha, maybe you can go and," he paused, face twisting as he forced out the rest, "get yourself another man.
But one like him—who can't even provide you with basic security—I will never accept. "
My heart dropped.
But before I could react, Leo pulled me behind him, his other hand flashing to his waist, drawing a gun that leveled steadily at Dante.
Two men, across this broken room, barrel to barrel.
"Dante, put the gun down." My voice trembled. "Please, calm down."
"I am calm." He cut me off, eyes never leaving Leo. "Today, one of us dies. You better pray it's me."
"Mr. Romanov." Leo's voice was ice-cold, his bloody face showing no fear. "Natasha isn't an object. She's not your possession. You can't destroy her or the people around her just because you can't have her."
He paused, staring into Dante's eyes.
"She has the right to choose," Leo said, each word distinct. "She chose you once. But facts have proven that was a mistake."
That sentence ignited Dante completely.
"Shut up!" He roared, gun hand bulging with veins, whole body shaking. "Today you're a dead man—"
I lunged forward.
I threw my arms wide, blocking Leo, facing Dante's gun barrel directly.
"If you want to kill him," I stared at Dante, voice cold, "kill me first."
Dante's pupils contracted sharply.
The gun in his hand started trembling uncontrollably. Those red eyes were filled with something like despair.
The gun slowly lowered.
"So... this is what it feels like." He spoke quietly, voice so hoarse it was barely audible. "This is how you felt back then."
He pulled his mouth into a self-mocking smile that looked worse than crying.
Dante put the gun away.
Then he pulled a black wallet from his inside pocket, bent down, and gently placed it on the wobbly table by the door.
Without looking at me again, he turned, pushed open the broken door, and walked out.
His footsteps faded down the hallway.
The room fell silent again.
The moment Leo closed the door, the breath I'd been holding finally escaped.
My legs gave out, and I collapsed.
A strong arm shot out from the side and caught me.
Leo.
Half his face still bleeding, he held me tight, letting me lean against him.
"It's okay." He said quietly. "He's gone."
I leaned against his arm, gasping for breath, tears finally breaking free.
"Thank you, Leo." I choked out, genuinely grateful. "Today... again, it was you. If you hadn't burst in, if you hadn't played along... thank you."
Leo said nothing.
He just tightened his arm, holding me steady—me and the child inside me—safe in his embrace.
I closed my eyes, leaning against his warm arm, letting tears fall one by one.
I'd won this round. I'd driven Dante away, protected myself and my baby.
But somehow, even though I was the victor, my heart felt hollow. I couldn't feel happy at all.